


Graphite Rain: A Love Story in Twelve Parts

by CaptainJacq



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Car Accidents, F/M, Grief, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pining, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-08 23:47:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 144,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainJacq/pseuds/CaptainJacq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s that time old tale, rewoven to fit: Merlin loves Arthur. But this is Arthur’s story. And, well... Arthur is thick. Cue six years of heartbreak, anger, loss, and most of all: love. There are people coming together and falling apart. There is awkwardness and pining and running away. And sometimes, at the end of it all, sometimes there’s a happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> I had plans for this fic, plans. It was my first proper delve into Merlin fandom and I was trying to make something simple and easy. Simple you know? Boy meets boy, boy likes boy; other boy likes girl. You know, simple. WELL THEN. That didn’t happen. Well, it sort of did. Except in 150K instead of like a normal 20K. This is self indulgent fic. It’s got a lot of Things I Wanted To Write About At Some Point, except they all wound up in here. Oops.  
> Anyway! Many, many glorious thanks go to my LJ Beta's - **Bend_Me_Baby** who put up with me and my writing wibbles early on. To **Aislingdoheanta** , who helped with my characterisation woes and put them to bed with milk and biscuits. Special thanks to **Tygermine** for helping me yell at Arthur and tame all those issues he and I were having. She’s an utter champ who confiscated my ticket on the melodrama train (and handed out comma’s while we were at the station) for which you should be grateful. I am a repeat offender and unashamed. Plus a brilliant, long lasting round of applause goes to **MillieJ** , who beta’d the bloody thing in it’s entirety and still seemed to enjoy it. Oh god, thankyou. Thankyou all so much <3

 

*

 

** Part One **

  
*

  
**_The story of a love is not important - what is important is that one is capable of love. It is perhaps the only glimpse we are permitted of eternity._  
Helen Hayes**

  
*

“...Arrogant, supercilious, conceited _prat_ ,” the man says, his blue eyes shining. His lips are pink and he’s waving a bloody blue WKD around with one hand and Arthur would have been laughing in his face if it wasn’t for the fact that the twat Gwen’s dragged to the pub is talking about _him_. Arthur scowls and in front of the dark headed twat Morgana’s been pawning over all evening, his half sister looks up at him and smirks, her green eyes glinting something dangerous and Arthur scowls a little deeper. The twat stiffens suddenly.  
“He’s right behind me isn’t he?” he asks, vaguely.

  
Gwen nods, looking sympathetic and Arthur feels a sharp sense of superiority as Twat turns to look up at him.

  
“Are you finished?” he asks, expecting Twat to blush and settle down. However, he’s wrong and Twat narrows his gaze as he looks up at Arthur.

  
“Ready to apologise?” Twat asks stiffly and for a moment Arthur can’t believe what he’s hearing; he scoffs, ignoring Morgana’s gleeful burst of laughter and suddenly intent on showing the Twat just where he fell on Life’s ladder: some six or so rungs below Arthur to begin with, if not a dozen or so more.

  
“Apologise? _Apologise_?” he finds himself saying. “You were the one who just called me a prat!”

  
Twat’s eyes flash and there’s something in that, something that sparks up in Arthur that he’s never really felt before. Something vital, but so rare he barely pays it any attention against the affront he’s feeling about the sad looking idiot in skinny jeans he’s supposed to be getting along with. If Gwen is to be believed.

  
Getting along seems to be the last thing on Twat’s mind as he glares, his eyes flashing as he spits his words back at Arthur. And it’s funny, really, that this affronting little man is who changes Arthur’s world.

  
“After you sat there for ten minutes insulting everything I do!”

  
“I hardly call painting something worth _doing_ ,” Arthur sneers, because really, if this is all to do with his throwaway comment ten minutes ago, then the idiot deserves to be laughed at. Instead, Twat’s expression tightens and there’s something wounded in the lilt of his still-angry voice as he starts up again, but not really enough to make Arthur stop.  
“Of course you wouldn’t, you Philistine!” Twat mocks. “Naturally art to you is a tax write off or the biggest number on your bank balance. You wouldn’t have the first idea about actually creating something beautiful that someone will appreciate. That someone _does_ appreciate.”

  
Arthur doesn’t hit people. He doesn’t. But right then he really wants to because Morgana is looking absolutely delighted and Twat is looking furious. But there’s also something else there, something... sad that has nothing to do with the reason they’re all at the pub anyway and it’s enough to make Arthur more uncomfortable than the fact he can’t really think of a reply that doesn’t sound petty and childish. But there’s a small sense of courtesy and resounding pride, lurking somewhere under Arthur’s annoyance and somewhat beer-dulled senses, that holds his tongue. It’s the same part of his brain that remembers Gwen’s face creased in sympathy and concern as she mentioned to him after class that she didn’t want to leave her friend on his own because he’d only been back three days, after taking a month off to take care of his mum. She’d gone up over the weekend to help him through the funeral, but he was back and avoiding the topic and she was worried.

  
Morgana had been insistent they take his mind off things. Arthur had agreed to tag along because Morgana had kicked him under the table. But mostly because Gwen had looked so damn _sad_ sitting across from him and he’d had a strange moment of being rather annoyed with Gwen’s friend (whose name he’d missed at the beginning because he’d been entranced by how Gwen’s curls seemed to tighten under the brief shaft of sunlight tapering through the window). He’d felt a little bad a moment later, because he really shouldn’t have been annoyed at someone whose mother had died just because it was making Gwen’s eyes crease and her lips tighten, making her look so forlorn he’d wanted to wrap her in his arms and – and well, that’s when Morgana had kicked him.

  
Still, it all comes back to him in a moment of clarity under the buzz of too many pints and his left over anger and he momentarily feels ashamed of himself as he sneers down at Twat.

  
“Well, if that’s what you really think,” he says, feeling stupid and really, that reply should have been filed under the ‘Weak’ heading, along with his three other responses he’s somewhat glad he didn’t say. But he wonders briefly whether Twat has noticed he’s actively throwing in the towel as he stalks away, but when he throws his glance back, Twat is looking at Morgana who is beaming as she tells Merlin ( _Merlin!_ What kind of name is _Merlin?_ ) that she’s never letting him go, _ever_. Twat’s shoulders aren’t quite as slumped as they were at the beginning of the night, however, and despite the fact it was purely incidental that he had any part of that minute distraction, Arthur feels rather proud of himself as he heads back to the bar.

  
And this is how it starts.

  
* Morgana is good on her word to Merlin, and the next time Arthur carefully stumbles across his half-sister and Gwen at the campus café, Merlin the Twat is slumped in (Arthur’s) third chair and there’s barely room for him. It doesn’t set Arthur’s mood off to the best start.

  
He’s spent the entirety of his last tutorial trying to think up a suitable excuse for wandering halfway across the campus to stumble across Gwen and Morgana, and Twat’s presence throws him off. The damn café they cosy up in is in the back of the Arts and Humanities block and Arthur’s economics building is much too far away to simply wave it off. Especially because Morgana is well aware of how much he likes Gwen and persistently calls him on it. He still manages to squeeze in at the table between Gwen and Morgana, but Twat’s expression is displeased and Arthur knows the two girls moved their chairs apart to avoid Arthur having to get any closer to Merlin than necessary. Not that he wanted to sit next to Twat anyway.

  
“Hello, Arthur,” Morgana says pointedly as Arthur pushes a little closer to the table and accidentally elbows her. Twat is looking away and Gwen is biting her lip as she’s watching him. Arthur tries not to pout. He really needs to figure out what Twat has on Gwen other than sympathy, because if there’s anything else then Arthur really doesn’t stand a chance with her and that’s _not on._

  
Twat is tall, painfully skinny and pale with black hair, the complete opposite of Arthur’s broad muscled frame. He’s worked hard to look as good as he does and he knows he looks good. He’s blond and handsome whereas Twat looks fey, like the pictures in Morgana’s folk-lore texts. If that’s Gwen’s type, then he’s done for. Arthur’s mood drops a little more.  
“Hello, Morgana,” he replies, a little more sour than he intends.

  
“Gwen,” he says, turning to her and smiling. Gwen looks back to him and smiles and Arthur’s annoyance involuntarily lifts a little.

  
He has to force his tongue to say ‘Merlin’ and not ‘Twat’ when he says hello. Twat just nods. He has a full mug of hot chocolate in front of him that he’s clearly just poked at idly, while Morgana and Gwen’s empty cups prove they’ve obviously been here since Morgana’s last class.

  
Arthur tuts and looks back to the girls.

  
“Anyone want anything to eat? I’m famished.”

  
“Merlin?” Gwen asks and Twat looks back at them, like his mind’s wandered. Arthur tries not to snort.

  
“No,” he says, shaking his head. Gwen frowns and looks back at Arthur.

  
“I’m all right, Arthur. Thank you.”

  
Morgana’s mouth is curled in an I-know-what-you’re-doing grin and Arthur just raises an expectant eyebrow.

  
“No thank you, dear brother,” she says after a moment, tone reeking of derision. Arthur scowls and gets up. He’s asked, which clearly means he needs to go and get something for himself otherwise Morgana will keep hounding him.

  
He sticks to a sandwich and a bottle of water and it doesn’t take him long at all because the café is always fairly empty considering the time, which is why the girls like it. He makes it back to his seat fairly quickly only to find that Twat’s seat is empty.

  
“Where’s Big Ears?” he asks and immediately both Gwen and Morgana frown at him and he feels a little ashamed of himself.  
“He’s heading back to the art rooms.”

  
“Isn’t he in your class, I thought you were done?”

  
“We are,” Gwen says and Arthur feels a modicum of pride that he bloody well remembered correctly where Gwen knows Twat from.  
“Merlin majors in Fine Art, but he doesn’t have any classes this afternoon. He’s hiding,” Morgana says, shuffling her chair around the table a little more.  
“Did I chase him off?” Arthur asks and Gwen colours a little. “I can go – ”

  
“No, Arthur, it’s okay. He wants to be alone for a while. Painting helps him think,” Gwen says. She looks and sounds so damn sad and that strange annoyance at Twat is back again.  
“He’s having a bad time of it,” she says after a beat of silence and when Arthur glances at Morgana, his half sister is wearing a similar downcast expression and idly twisting her fingers. Arthur doesn’t think he’s ever seen her look like that before.

  
“Am I making it worse?” he asks, feeling suddenly insecure. After all, last time he made Twat angry for twenty minutes and this time he couldn’t withstand five minutes in Arthur’s company. Morgana and Gwen have a deep seated affection for the skinny twat that clearly goes beyond one term in art classes together, but even after two years of university and two years of paying incredible attention to near on everything Gwen says (much to Morgana’s chagrin and simultaneous amusement, and his own half-conscious embarrassment), he has had no idea Merlin-Twat had existed until four days prior. It all seems to make everything feel a little lopsided, not entirely because it’s clear that despite his best intentions, Gwen has friends - and therefore interests - beyond what Arthur has managed to uncover.

  
“No,” Gwen hurries to say on one side of the table, as Arthur shifts uncomfortably, just as Morgana says, “Yes,” on the other.

  
Arthur slumps in his seat and Gwen looks flustered and upset, looking between Morgana and Arthur.  
“It’s not you, Arthur,” Gwen says and Morgana snorts.

  
“It’s what you said,” Morgana says with her gaze narrowed a little.

  
“What I said?” Arthur asks, looking at his sister; her expression softens.

  
“The other night. You had a go at him for painting. Said it was worthless.”

  
“So?” he replies and watches Morgana roll her eyes; he can pretty much hear her inner monologue calling him an idiot. But really, isn’t this all a little much for someone Arthur didn’t know this time last week? He insults people all the time and Morgana certainly doesn’t care about them anywhere near as much.

  
“So, Arthur,” Morgana says with the painful air of explaining something simple to someone thick. He’s heard that tone more than once. “Merlin was painting when his mother collapsed. They couldn’t get in touch with him right away because when he starts he goes off into his own little world and the roof could fall on his head and he wouldn’t know.”  
The three of them fall quiet for a moment, and then, softly, Gwen starts speaking and Arthur sort of wishes she _wouldn’t_ because he’s starting to get this lurching feeling in his stomach that’s disconcertingly similar to how he felt when he realised he couldn’t talk to his father without disappointing him. It makes him squirm.

  
“He feels guilty, Arthur, his mum was sick for a while. Off and on for the last five years. Merlin thought she was in remission; it’s the only reason he’s at uni. He never would have left her if he knew. He feels guilty because she used money he thinks she should have been using for treatment to fund his tuition, and because he was here when she got really ill again. It was only when she collapsed and had to be admitted that Merlin found out. The hospital had to call him,” Gwen paused then, looking sombre. “But she wanted him to be here. He knows that. But it’s hard. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s been painting so long…it helps. Sometimes it helps.”

  
“Sometimes it makes things worse,” Morgana says as sombre as Gwen, and Arthur decides there _definitely_ must be something about this Merlin he’s missing because no one gets Morgana to talk like that.

  
No one.

 

  
*

  
Its three weeks after Arthur first meets Merlin that he serves to understand Gwen and Morgana’s affection for Merlin-Twat. Arthur’s not even chasing (stalking, Arthur, _stalking_ ) Gwen when he comes across him. In all fact, he doesn’t expect to find anyone around because it’s nearly ten at night. Gwen, Morgana and Merlin all have classes in the Arts and Humanities Block, and while that may be where Arthur _is,_ he doesn’t expect Merlin to still be in the studio so late. It’s not like the art department have huge, horrible essays they have to complete week in and out. Arthur knows for a fact that Gwen only has five submissions for her creative writing subject all semester and one of those is split into two, a short story and a review of the writing process. He’s simply curious when he walks past the studio window and sees a familiar twig out of the corner of his eye as he’s heading back to his car, that he parked in the Humanities car park for reasons not at all Gwen related.

  
Arthur knows which rooms are the studios in the Arts block because Gwen told him how they had to replace the windows last semester and she had no idea how large the panes of glass were until she watched them being refitted. Arthur suspected it had more to do with the five minute conversation afterwards she’d had with Morgana over the fit blokes who’d been installing the windows.

  
The lengths he went to, honestly.

  
Still, he had to give Gwen something, because the windows are huge and clearly meant to flood the rooms full of natural light. The light going on in the end room is completely fluorescent as he’s walking by and he would have dismissed it completely if he didn’t recognise the black mop of hair and the careworn jumper he catches sight of out of the corner of his eye.

  
Considering the size and prestige of Camelot University, it could be anyone, but by the luck of averages or Murphy or something – eight points of connection, Arthur recognises Merlin-Twat sitting in front of a large canvas almost like he’s the artwork. Arthur can’t quite make out what’s on the canvas from his distance, but Twat is curled up in on himself, his arms wrapped around his torso. He’s staring resolutely straight up at the canvas and there’s a solemn desperation about the small figure that makes Arthur uncomfortable as he stands in the shade of the Arts building.

  
He doesn’t like it.

  
He feels like he’s intruding and tries to leave as quickly as he’d come. It’s not the first time he’s seen Merlin in the last few weeks, but given the nature of their past interactions he hasn’t taken to spending enough time around him that either of them run the risk of opening their mouths. But given their memorable past encounters Merlin is now one of the two dozen or so people Arthur recognises around campus instead of a blank face lost in the masses.

  
Still, while each glance Arthur’s spared Merlin in the last few weeks has done little to permeate the view that, while Merlin-Twat may have lost his mother a short number of weeks ago in comparison to the years Arthur’s been counting off, the slumped vision behind the large glass panes is very much the image of a man who is not coping. And really, that’s not okay. How dare that Twat allow himself to be vulnerable when he thought no one was looking, because dammit, Arthur’s been content with his open dislike of Merlin up until now, and he hates nothing more than having to rethink his view on people.

 

  
*

  
“I saw Merlin last night,” he says the following morning and Gwen’s reaction is immediate. Her eyes crinkle and her mouth curves down and Arthur immediately wishes he hadn’t brought it up. In fact, he’s still not exactly sure why it’s bothered him enough _to_ bring up. Or why it served to bother him for most of the night before. If anything, he should be more annoyed at being bothered, but really he’s only a little bit bothered he’s bothered. Arthur shifts in his seat, uneasy and with no idea what he’s doing.  
“In the studio,” he clarifies and she sighs.

  
“I wondered where he was,” she says, sadly. “He keeps wandering off and I never know if I should let him be or not. I wish he’d just accept my offer to move in.” She’s frowning and melancholic. He doesn’t like it.

  
“Why would he need to move in?” he asks, trying to stamp down the rearing burst of jealousy deep in his chest. Merlin isn’t competition. He can’t be, not in the way that he should be worried about. He’s _Merlin-Twat_. He’s just a magnet to Gwen’s mothering instincts, there’s no attraction. There can’t be.

  
“He’s on his own at the flat right now,” Gwen replies, eyes downcast. “And on top of it he’s still trying to sort everything out with his mum’s estate. She tried to leave him as much as she could, paid for his tuition in advance, but she had to sell the house to pay for her care a few years ago which Merlin didn’t know about and now he’s left forking out money left, right and centre for all the private treatment she had and then there’s the funeral. He won’t say it, but I know he’s having trouble meeting rent and bills. He’s too damn proud to say anything.”

  
Arthur frowns and idly turns his coffee cup a quarter circle before looking up at her.

  
“End of semester’s coming up soon. Maybe a break will do him good?” It’s a thin attempt at comfort and he knows it, but Gwen’s a sweetheart, she won’t hold his horrific empathy and sympathy skills against him. Not like Morgana.

  
“Maybe. Hopefully,” Gwen says. She emits a long sigh before forcing a smile.

  
“Thank you for the coffee, Arthur. I’m sorry I’ve been so scatter brained lately,” she says, standing up and her smile turns gentle and genuine and a part of Arthur starts crowing and he has to force himself not to grin like an idiot because that smile makes him forget everything about Merlin-Twat and all the drama around it. She looks beautiful, a little tired, but beautiful. Her hair is pulled back and there’s a loose curl and he wants to tuck it behind her ear, but he doesn’t get the chance before she offers him a small wave and weaves back through the tables, heading for her Art History class.

 

  
*

  
After that there really isn’t much time for useless worrying over Merlin Twat. Arthur has his own assessments starting to let their pressure be known, and given it’s his third and final year, the pressure weighs heavier than usual to get that First his father is expecting. He spends an inordinate amount of time in the library, his brain buzzing with numbers and reports and the last cutting requirements administered from his father at their last family meeting-passing-as-dinner. Even Gwen starts to suffer under the weight of the impending end of term, and the days Arthur picks her up for coffee before classes drop down significantly and when they happen their conversation barely goes much beyond complaining about library time and their professors. A fortnight goes by and by the end of it, it feels like whenever he talks to anyone, be it Gwen and Morgana or even Leon and even stranger still – Bedivere, they talk (or grunt, articulate words become a rarity on anything other than paper) about little else but their studying woes. It’s something that Arthur can sort of agree with, because he has exams coming up as well. He has twice as many as both Gwen and Morgana do, which gives him a little justification for how rude and frustrating he becomes (if Morgana is to believed). Especially given that Morgana blames her series of final essays for her increase in scathing repertoire.

  
It all becomes a bit of a mess, so when he runs into Twat on his own again, it’s very much a surprise and it takes him a moment to recognise who he’s pulling out of the grasp of a bunch of six foot tall wanna-be-boulders. What’s more, is that it takes Arthur almost more effort to stop Merlin from trying to jump back into the fray than it took Arthur to pull him out of it.

  
The thin twat is still fuming, chest heaving a few moments later when the jeering fades out of earshot and all of a sudden it’s just Arthur and Merlin standing under the shadows of the Computer Arts building. Merlin continues to breathe hard as he slumps down on the low wall, each breath coming in short sharp gasps emphasised by the trembling running through him. He’s pale and his eyes are wide and bloodshot, and there’s a red mark on his cheekbone that’s going to turn into a nasty bruise. His bottom lip is stained red, split in one corner and when he raises one shaking hand to his lips to wipe away the blood, his knuckles are split as well.  
He managed to get a punch in.

  
It’s almost a shock.

  
“What on earth?” Arthur says instead and Merlin’s gaze narrows.

  
“What?” Merlin says, low and gravelly, like a challenge. Arthur takes a step forward. Merlin just eyes him.

  
“Jesus, Merlin,” Arthur swears instead and Merlin suddenly looks away. Still, it’s not completely dark under there, the path around the corner is well lit and they’re not in the alcove that leads down to the Animation Decks yet either, and Arthur can see how Merlin’s eyes glisten and how in the quiet that follows, when he can’t think of anything to say, tears wash over and start to slide down the other boy’s cheek. Merlin swipes at them as soon as they fall.

  
“They were going to punch your head in,” Arthur says as a distraction, glancing up the alley where the group had dispersed. When he looks back all he can really see is the red mark on Merlin’s face.

  
“Looks like they already tried.”

  
“What of it?” Merlin replies, chin tilted up and defensive, his body quivering.

  
“Next time I’ll leave them to it, shall I? I must say I’m interested in seeing how someone as scrawny as you beats off four guys twice your size,” he says before he can help himself. Merlin’s expression tightens and he looks away again, biting his lip like he’s trying to hold something back. It’s this restraint that forces Arthur’s curiosity.

  
“What happened?” he asks, a little more demanding than he probably should be, but then again, Merlin doesn’t really look the type to get caught up in brawls and it’s better than sounding defensive, which was the other option.

  
“They followed me,” Merlin says quietly, closing his eyes as he speaks. He hangs his head, leaning forward with his hands on either side of the wall to brace himself. Arthur keeps his distance, a few steps back, just watching because he’s never been very good with emotions. He’s had to deal with his own by himself for nearly fifteen years now. There was no point taking anything to his father and he and Morgana were never the sharing type. Arthur knows he’s emotionally stunted. He doesn’t know how to comfort himself, let alone other people. He stands his ground though, he doesn’t leave and after a moment, Merlin tips his head back up, opens his eyes, and looks at Arthur.

  
“They said she’d have been ashamed of me,” Merlin says quietly, then. Arthur looks at him as the other young man keeps talking, making sure he doesn’t blink so as to not make Merlin stop talking. It’s the only thing he can offer him.

  
“She should have been. Wasting it all away. Stupid Merlin with his head in the clouds,” he laughs, but his voice sounds broken and bitter and Arthur has never had the urge to comfort another man before, let alone wrap his arms around one. He doesn’t know Merlin enough to even contemplate giving in, but he crosses the few steps between them and sits down next to him. He thinks it’s a fair compromise, but Merlin is probably the type to have appreciated a hug; after all, he’s friends with Gwen.  
It’s all Arthur can offer, though.

  
Neither of them talk for a while and Arthur counts the minutes Merlin sits stiff and still, but he doesn’t pressure the other man, he just waits and watches how white his hands are as he wraps them around himself.

  
Then Merlin opens his eyes and he looks straight at Arthur. His eyes are red and glassy and his mouth is a tight line.

  
Arthur looks him in the eye as he speaks, and tries not to let how desperate Merlin’s expression is get to him too much. It makes him squirm.

  
He’s not so sure how well it works.

  
“My car’s half a block away. Think you can walk?”

  
He doesn’t know how bad Merlin’s injuries are, if something happened that he wasn’t there to see, but Merlin nods and stands and he doesn’t say a thing as Arthur leads him back to the car. He gets in the passenger seat and wraps his arms back around himself and he doesn’t tell Arthur where to go. He says nothing at all and Arthur debates whether or not he should take Merlin to Gwen and Morgana’s during the time it takes him to pull out of the university car park, and by then he’s made up his mind.

  
Gwen has her Creative Writing final work due in the morning and Morgana has an exam if his mental calendar works at all.

  
“You can come and kip at mine tonight. If you don’t want to be on your own,” he says and Merlin turns to look at him, his eyes are wide and searching and Arthur’s never really felt so exposed in that moment. It’s like Merlin’s staring straight through all his posturing and right into _him_ – his past, present, future – and it’s disconcerting to say the least.  
“Thank you,” he croaks and that’s decided.

  
He sleeps in the spare room and Arthur doesn’t know when he decides to offer Merlin to stay and take it indefinitely, only that he does.

 

  
*


	2. Part Two

*

** Part Two **

  
*

  
**_It is difficult to know at what moment love begins; it is less difficult to know that it has begun._  
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow**   


*

The last ten days of university seem to go by in an odd blur. Arthur entertains himself with the exploits of his new flatmate. It’s been a good twelve months since he’s shared his flat with anyone. The last one had been Kay, who had been a brilliant footballer, despite the fact he was built like a truck. He’d also a penchant for pot that wound up getting him kicked out of Camelot University and at Uther’s discretion, out of the apartment. It had been lonely at first, but then Arthur had acclimatised to being the only one around and that had been that. Merlin enters his life in a wave of self-collapsing boxes between Merlin’s dodgy little blue Citroen parked on the side of the road, and the second floor.  
Up until Morgana had adopted Gwen after Orientation Week, Arthur had only ever had contact with people who had money, and for some reason, money meant an affirming taste in minimalism. And order.

Merlin knows neither of these things. While no one has lived in the spare room for near on a year, it did have the occasional visitor after too much vodka and had remained in a state of perpetual tidiness. Merlin destroys that in an instant. He sets up his easel and stacks rows of canvases that Arthur’s not allowed to see against the wall. He upends his box of socks into the bedside table and as Arthur sets down a heavy box he guesses is full of books, he watches idly as several mismatched pairs roll under the bed.

He doesn’t know it at the time, but in a way, watching that pair of blue and pink socks roll into the abyss is how is starts. Merlin’s belongings seem to creep outwards in diameter while they’re sleeping, because by the time Arthur arrives back home four days after they empty out the little car downstairs, feeling quietly triumphant about his final exam for this semester in some bewildering fashion, he finds his apartment littered with... stuff. There are cooking utensils in his kitchen drawers he’s never seen before. Food he’s never eaten in his fridge, jackets on the couch, shoes in the hall and not in the coat cupboard. Worse still, there are tiny snow globes and dragon statuettes on the side table. Spare bits of paper scattered around the place like clues to some fantasy land that Arthur’s never heard of.

What’s worse is that it’s strangely exhilarating, feeling his old world in a whirlwind. Stranger still is Merlin himself. He’s nothing like anyone Arthur’s ever known before. Infuriating, for one – but in a way that’s nothing like Morgana. He’s infuriating in a way that makes Arthur want to laugh at him, as he had back in the pub. It had been a raw, personal thing they’d been arguing over at a time in Merlin’s life when he was unstable at best; that, Arthur knows. But the argument, the argument they’d had put his petty spats with Morgana to shame. Merlin could be rude, unflattering and ridiculously stubborn. He had his own bizarre honour, spending an hour (wheedling) yelling Arthur into charging him £100 a week, including bills, when Arthur had been determined to let it pass by. He’s not even sure he’d charged Kay anything, which, given that Kay had been from old money like Arthur, had been odd; he could have afforded it after all. More than that, Merlin was generous with his own money, even though what he must have earned in a week, working casual shifts at an art supply shop in the citadel, could have barely matched up to Arthur’s allowance from his father, and that was after Uther threw his credit card at all of Arthur’s bills and a ridiculous study bonus at the start of each term. Merlin forced himself to pay for takeout that first night and cooked the night after, which for Arthur was a rare delicacy, eating something off a plate that he didn’t have to tip for, or out of a cardboard box.

Merlin seems to immediately fall into his life and, despite his initial dislike of the weedy idiot; he quickly becomes a fixed feature. Not that Merlin is fixed; Arthur knows he’s going to continuously surprise him. Mostly because Arthur doesn’t think on it like others might.

For example, Arthur has absolutely no idea where Merlin met the man he’d been making out with on the couch until Arthur had walked in. What’s more, as Merlin splutters and goes different shades of red on the cushions, Arthur can’t help but wonder _how_ Merlin met him, because Mr. Lancelot du Lac is studying law and Arthur’s pretty sure Merlin’s never stepped foot anywhere _near_ the law building. That and the fact it’s the _last day of semester_. Arthur’s been at Camelot University for two and half years now and he’s never picked up on the last day of semester. What’s more is that Lance is a Spanish exchange student, over for the second semester, and Merlin had helped him with the dodgy car he’d bought when it had died in the car park while he was getting his student card before the break. Which is even slightly more infuriating because that pretty much means Merlin’s picked up on the guy’s _first fucking day._

“I didn’t know you knew anything about cars, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur says with a laugh to make up for how mortifying that is. But Merlin doesn’t help either of his causes when he blushes.

“Had a fair amount of practice back home, the car Mum had couldn’t last a month without dying in the ASDA car park,” he says, nonchalant, with a shrug for added effect. Arthur’s smug half-embarrassment dissipates and he feels that odd sensation he’s started getting whenever he remembers that Merlin’s life hasn’t been simple or easy, not with the basics that Arthur has always taken for granted.

“He was very helpful,” Lancelot says again. Merlin blushes once more and Arthur laughs just for the sake of it, shaking his head as he heads to the fridge for one of his protein shakes before pulling out his gym bag from the coat closet and smirking as he bids the pair of them a good afternoon. Merlin still looks embarrassed to all hell, but there was something else in his blue gaze that seems to chase Arthur on the treadmill all afternoon. He’s been gone almost two hours before he realises he’d completely forgotten about the meet up with his friends – his _other_ , older, better friends - he’d been stopping off to get changed for.

Then he feels like an idiot and buys beer on the way home instead.

Merlin’s alone when he gets back to the flat. He’s sitting on the couch with a sketchbook in his lap and graphite pencils.

“Where’s Lancelot?” he asks the moment he toes off his shoes and maybe that was the wrong thing to ask because Merlin winces. He must look confused because Merlin slides the book off his lap and watches Arthur as he tucks his shoes and gym bag in the closet.

“He left. About an hour ago.”

“Oh, have a good time?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t think about it,” Merlin says with a red tinge in his cheeks and the tips of his ears.  
“From your little story, Merlin, you only met him yesterday. Don’t worry about it,” he shrugs, crossing the room to the kitchen to dump the beer in the fridge. Merlin twists his body, following him with his gaze. Arthur can feel it.

“No, I meant about being gay. I didn’t tell you. I should have. When I moved in.” Arthur glances at him and there’s this hesitancy written all over his face that for some reason makes him think of the sheer gratitude that had been written all over Gwen’s face when he told her Merlin was moving in. It’s strange. And then it hits him. Merlin didn’t know Arthur didn’t know he was gay. Awkward.

“Merlin, it clearly doesn’t bother me, so why are you making such a big deal?”

“Oh. Right. I – I don’t know. It, just, I mean,” Merlin splutters and Arthur chuckles lightly. Merlin looks pained though.

“It bothers people. Sometimes. I know it does. Even at uni. I know so many people have these gay flings at uni and never think on it again, but this is _me_ and when people realise that, well, sometimes they don’t like it.”

“You sound like you have experience,” Arthur says softly and Merlin sighs, hanging his head.

“My best mate, Will. Wasn’t uni, but before, after college finished. We spent two months making out and getting off and then all of a sudden that was it. I asked him about it and he threatened to punch me in the face if I ever told anyone we did anything more than kiss. He liked the kissing, he figured out ages ago it got him girls. Still hurt though. It was funny, that hurt more than getting my head kicked in six months before.”

Arthur feels a jolting anger that’s mixed with something else and it must show on his face because Merlin looks a bit uncomfortable after that.

“Some of the boys at my college didn’t like anything that wasn’t football. I’d had it coming a long time, really. They would have done it just for the art stuff, never mind the fact I liked blokes,” Merlin explains, idly.

“You don’t have to worry about anything like that here,” Arthur finds himself saying, really appreciating the way Merlin’s expression lightens and he chuffs out a small laugh and a bright grin. That’s one thing that’s snuck up on Arthur that he’s rather taken with about Merlin: his armoury of smiles. They’re all a little bit dangerous; some of them make him look a little dim, but they’re all blinding as fuck as far as he’s seen. They’re still not out and about as often as anyone would like from what Gwen says, but they’re getting there and that’s enough.

“Thank you, Arthur,” Merlin is saying then and Arthur tears the cardboard on the beer a little more than is necessary as he jolts back to reality.

“Beer?” he asks to change the mood and it seems to work rather well. Merlin nods and reaches for the remote.

“What do you feel like watching?” he asks and Arthur shrugs but after a minute of channel surfing, he steals the remote off Merlin. If they spend the next hour not really watching anything because they keep stealing the remote and changing it for no reason than petty glee at the other’s outrage, then that’s what they do.

*

Before Arthur realises it, he’s been living with Merlin for over a month and he still hasn’t quite figured out why he asked him to stay. It’s not something he _likes_ to think about. They weren’t friends at the time. Merlin is nothing at all like the guys Arthur counts as his group when he’s not lurking around with Gwen and Morgana. Leon, Owaine, and Bedivere are like what Kay used to be, all of similar stock to Arthur himself: wealthy fathers and lined up to go straight into their father’s practices when they graduate. Merlin is different, he has to work for everything, and work hard, but there’s a sincerity about him that quickly seems to latch onto Arthur and he starts counting on Merlin as one of his friends without noticing. So much of the other man is alien to how Arthur’s been brought up, his flat mate is almost a distraction. He certainly distracts Uther from over analysing Arthur’s results from his exams on Applied Econometrics, and Macroeconomics of Open Economies that his father seems to get his hands on a fortnight before anyone else will be getting theirs. Morgana bringing up the fact Arthur’s filled his spare bedroom with a scholarship student shuts their father up mid lecture on how Arthur could bring up his already high standing grade. By the end of the night, he’s almost more proud of himself for asking Merlin to move in with him than he is about the fact he managed to maintain his stupidly high average.

After that he’s left to his own devices for the break in semester. Owaine and Bedivere’s determination to stick their dick in as many of the first years as they can in the local uni dive bar is increasingly off putting with each repeat attempt, which leads him to spending an inordinate amount of time loitering around his own flat. Which, for a normally sociable and attractive man such as himself, seems self indulgent and a little depressing. But with the addition of Merlin to his flat and Merlin’s doe eyed, guileless personality, he also finds Gwen and Morgana in his flat as well, which is nothing but a bonus, really - even if Morgana does ruin his wank dreams by her sheer presence.

But in the time he’s been in the second bedroom, Arthur’s learned several important things about his newest friend; Merlin is gay and therefore the Gwen competition is null and void, Merlin draws and paints like a compulsion and he’s very, very good at it.

He’s also very good at pretending he’s okay when people are watching him.

But Merlin is, otherwise, a man who wears his heart on his sleeve and while he seems to manage pretty well with the girls, when Merlin’s back at Arthur’s and they’re alone, there are moments when it feels like something niggling in the back of his head and Arthur can’t help but think about how it feels under the weight of his father’s expectations and the brunt of everyone watching him. It’s a tiny feeling and more like déjà vu than anything, sneaking up on him out of the corner of his eye. Merlin doesn’t talk about anything at all concerning his mother and Arthur almost finds himself convinced that his new addition to the flat is doing okay that it’s disconcerting to himself when he figures it out. When he discovers how very little he knows about Merlin and how well the other man is at keeping to himself what he doesn’t want to share.

Merlin is very much not-okay.

Arthur’s not proud of himself for it after, normally he’s not that nosy, or when he is, he doesn’t reduce himself to snooping through a sketchbook. Normally, he just asks (and maybe pressures) people into telling him what’s wrong because talking about it apparently helps. But he’s been living with Merlin for six weeks and in that whole time Merlin has been desperately private about how unsettled he is.

So Arthur snoops, and immediately wishes that he hadn’t.

In a way, he finds what he’s looking for; he finds confirmation of several things he’s been contemplating about his new housemate. He’s seen Merlin’s drawings before. He draws like it’s a akin to breathing; if he’s awake before Arthur (a common occurrence in the beginning, now thankfully starting to wane) then he’s drawing, if he’s bored with the television, he’s drawing, when he’s finished eating or when he finds something particularly amusing, he’s drawing. Arthur’s got used to caricatures of spiders on skates being stuck to the fridge, and after Leon had spilled about Arthur’s crush on Daisy Lowe when he’d come over to watch a movie, Arthur had been turning up increasingly realistic drawings of them kissing or shagging for weeks, the pages stuffed in his car, cereal boxes and the screensaver of his computer swapped out. It’s not quite as annoying as he pretends it is, mostly because the drawings aren’t that bad.

Merlin has talent, and it’s not something Arthur is going to ever question and certainly never admit, not after Merlin’s reaction at the pub all those weeks ago and then again, with the group he’d tried to fight on his own. But despite that, Arthur has never seen anything like the pages of the book he knows he shouldn’t be looking in. These have more than just talent and skill, these have _emotion_ and they make Arthur squirm. These are memories or fantasies or a mixture of the two. They’re realistic and painful, familiar in a way that makes him uncomfortable because these are all of Merlin’s mother. Pages and pages of the same woman in various stages of life, older and worn, but not quite old in the sense of the word, more like… timeless. There are images of this woman under shadows and in light, wrapped tight in the arms of a weary eyed Merlin, scores of a younger mother, holding the hand of a boy not yet taller than her waist. Focused drawings of withered hands clutching her son’s; sketches of the curve of her nose and lashes pressed against her cheek, hard pressed graphite to paper. There are drawings of plates and cutlery, china teacups and teapots, and a tossed-aside woollen shawl. Arthur pauses over a digital clock eerily staring out the time: 19:57 as it sits on a bedside table next to a pair of glasses and a half empty water glass. The next page is a portrait, then another and another in various stages of realism, like a preservation or disintegration depending on which way Arthur looks. Then there’s a page of shadows in black suits with bowed heads, mourners, old and young and in the very centre a caricature of Merlin.

Arthur puts the book down where he’d found it then, and he can’t stop feeling guilty all day. He buys the beer Merlin likes and take-out Chinese for dinner and if Merlin had noticed anything different about his book then he doesn’t say anything, he just puts on the smiles he’s been wearing for weeks and he talks, he talks about his classes and his plans for the weekend and Arthur can see the book tucked up under Merlin’s knees on the other side of the couch.

He doesn’t see it again for almost a fortnight.

When he does, it’s nearly four a.m. and he’s not sure what it is that’s woken him, but when he pads out into the living room, Merlin is asleep over the table, the book open in front of him.  
His fingers are stained black with graphite as is the side of his palm and nearly halfway up his forearm.

“Merlin, you idiot,” Arthur says softly, not unkind, as he walks over to the table and gently slides the book out from under Merlin’s cheek. The moment he’s no longer touching the paper, Merlin stirs. It takes him a moment and Arthur watches as he blinks himself back to coherency, his eyes snapping into focus as he licks his lips and runs a hand through his hair. It takes him a beat to realise where he is and then he sees the book under Arthur’s arm and then there’s panic written across his face.

“She’s beautiful,” Arthur says. The book isn’t open anymore, but Merlin clearly knows he’s seen inside it now. He’s flushed red to the tips of his large ears, but he looks so pained that Arthur slides the book back to him. He takes it and pulls it to his chest, wrapping his arms around it. Arthur watches silently until he’s done before he starts talking again.  
“You miss her, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Merlin croaks. His eyes drift down to the table and his shoulders slump. “Every day. I thought it would get better, but it doesn’t.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Arthur agrees. It’s been a long time since he’s thought about the aching absence his mother’s left, in his chest and his life.

“My mother died when I was four,” he says and he’s not exactly sure why he starts speaking, but he doesn’t know how to stop, so he doesn’t. But he doesn’t look at Merlin, either.  
“She’d had health complications ever since she had me. She was ill all the time, in the end she just didn’t have the strength to fight anymore and she died. I was too young to understand, but no matter how old you are, when you lose someone you loved like that. It hurts. It keeps on hurting and then one day you get used to the pain and it’s just this ache in your chest that’s always been there. They’re just memories that make you stop for a moment. But you can’t keep dwelling, Merlin, you can’t let it eat you away; because then you turn into my father and that’s not something you want. Or that anyone wants for you.”

Merlin’s quiet and Arthur thinks he’s overstepped, hell he’s overstepped on his own boundaries, but finally Merlin nods and lets go of the book. He doesn’t look at Arthur, he just slides it across the table and sits back in his chair and stares at it.

“Was she pretty, your mum?” he asks, quietly. Arthur’s heart jumps and then stops and then keeps going. He sighs and nods.  
“I have a picture of her. Just one, though. My dad got rid of them all.”

“Can I see her?” Merlin asks and it’s this point, right at that moment that Arthur realises Merlin’s got further under his skin than anyone else he knows, because he’s handing his only picture of his mother over to his dopey, big-eared flat mate at four in the morning.

It’s not Morgana’s strange compassion, or Gwen’s sweet concern or the way Merlin had been that night in the studio, or in the car after the fight or any moment in between, it’s this moment, at four a.m. that Arthur realises how different Merlin really is, how much he likes him.

It’s at six o’clock the next night when he gets home from the gym that he finds a photo-perfect drawing of his mother with her arms around him sitting on his bed. She’s perfect, smiling and beautiful and aged to the day, like he could have just gone home for the afternoon to see her.

Merlin’s written ‘Thank you, Puff’ on the back, but Arthur means it just as much as he stutters over the words back to Merlin later than night.  
Neither of them mentions it again and Arthur doesn’t think about the nickname.

But Merlin starts a new sketchbook and Arthur pretends that he’s not aware of how vulnerable Merlin actually is.

*

It gets better after that, though. Starting with the fact that two days after their late night chat, Arthur wakes up to find Gwen sitting curled up on his couch. Which is nice, especially given the way she smiles and blushes at him, the colour warming her cheeks and making her eyes brighter; it takes him a good minute to realise he’s only in his bloody boxers with his morning wood tenting the front. Which, in turn, makes himself blush and Merlin start cackling like he’s never seen anything more hilarious as he comes out of the kitchen, looking sleep crumpled himself, carrying two mugs still steaming.

“Shut up, Merlin,” he scowls and hurries into the shower, trying to ignore the tinkering laughter of Gwen and Merlin behind him as he goes. What’s worse is that he can still hear their faint muffled voices while he’s in the shower, which makes it easy to wank off, his brain fixed on Gwen’s breasts and her nimble fingers. He feels a bit creepy afterwards, but the awkwardness in the air is still easily reverted back to pre-shower as he emerges fully dressed and keen to escape Merlin’s grinning laughter for a while longer.

He walks the block to escape them and then heads over to the little cafe a few blocks behind his apartment that does amazing cafe lattes. He buys one for himself that he drinks there and then another one for Gwen and a hot chocolate for Merlin, because he doesn’t like coffee for some absurd reason.

When he gets back, Merlin is alone, sprawled out on the couch flicking through the channels, idly scratching his stomach.

“Where’s Gwen?” he asks as he toes his shoes off and Merlin sits up, his otherwise blank expression shifting into something mischievous.

“She went home, her and Morgana had a spat last night after Morgana brought someone home and misbehaved rather loudly.”

“Merlin, I take you into my home out of the kindness of my heart. I let you leave your stuff everywhere, you never put your shoes in the cupboard where they belong and I charge you a pittance – in exchange all I ask is that you never, ever speak of my sister’s sex exploits in my company.”

Merlin’s eyes glitter and his grin doesn’t twitch.

“What about your sex exploits? Did you have fun wanking off in the shower while we were out here talking?’  
“What? I was not.”

“Arthur, there’s only one thing you do with a boner like that and it’s not talk it down. Especially when it’s for a girl as pretty as Gwen is.”

“Shut up Merlin, it had nothing to do with Gwen,” he scowls, feeling the lie slip off his tongue.

“Uh huh, sure. And that’s not a coffee you bought for her either, is it?” Merlin winks, laughing and rolling back against the arm rest and out of Arthur’s badly aimed kick, which is entirely on purpose because Merlin’s damn flailing limbs would knock over the coffee to make a point.

“I bought one for you as well you twit, but you’re not getting it anymore.”

“I don’t even like coffee, so nerr,” Merlin grins like a child.

“Coffee, hot chocolate – it’s all the same: mine!” he says, triumphant as he heads for his bedroom to the sound of Merlin flailing and tripping over his limbs in an attempt to claw at Arthur and get to the second cup.

In the space of Morgana’s latest boy-toy, it’s only after that Arthur realises that he hasn’t seen much more of Lancelot than their first awkward introduction. In fact, he hasn’t seen him _at all_ , which is weird, because even working at the age old art supply shop hasn’t taken up all of Merlin’s holidays and it makes it twice as strange when Arthur gets to the pub an hour after everyone else, a few days after they go back to uni, to find the other man sitting next to Merlin in the booth.

“Arthur!” he startles at his name and tries not to go red in the slightest as Merlin grins and alerts everyone else to the fact he’s been standing a few steps away from the table.  
“Sorry, I’m late,” he grunts coming to a stop right in front of them.

“Don’t worry, brother dear, we were doing just fine without you, weren’t we?” Morgana smiles, the smug challenge ringing clear in her voice. Arthur scowls.

“Everyone up for another round?” he asks grimly. Merlin glances at Morgana with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Yeah, I’ll come help.”

“I don’t need help, Merlin,” Arthur sneers and tries to ignore the flash of hurt in Merlin’s eyes that’s quickly taken over by indignation.

“Yeah, but with Lance here we’re gonna need two pitchers and after living with you for two months I know for a fact you can’t carry two things at once,” he snarks. Arthur splutters to answer as Morgana laughs heartily, but by then Merlin’s slid past Lance and is weaving ahead of him towards the bar.

“ _Mer_ lin!” he calls after him, but Merlin doesn’t stop until he’s woven in between the loitering crowd and is leaning against the bench. Then he turns around.  
“Way to make Lance feel unwelcome, _Arthur_ ,” Merlin scowls and Arthur stands up straight and exhales. It’s not a pout. He doesn’t pout.

“I didn’t know he was going to be here. I didn’t know you were still seeing him.”

“I’m not seeing him,” Merlin says, eyeing Arthur. Arthur shifts.

“Then what’s he doing here?”

“Hanging out. He’s over on exchange and I like him. Plus, everyone else in his lecture is apparently dense and arrogant, and I’m _nice_.”  
“You’re an idiot is what you are,” Arthur prods, grinning. Merlin shakes his head at him.

“You sure he just doesn’t miss shoving his tongue down your throat?” he teases and is infinitely pleased when the tips of Merlin’s ears go red.  
“We stopped that,” he mutters and Arthur laughs.

“Come off it, Merlin,” he says, but he doesn’t get any further because Merlin was telling the truth, he _is_ nice and in the case of the pub, that means he always gets served faster than anyone, even girls with their tits out. Arthur’s quietly wondered if Merlin’s slept with all of the bar staff, but he’s not sure.

“Come on, pay up – ” Merlin grins, reaching over his shoulder expectantly for Arthur’s money while the barman – Gilli, Gelli? Arthur wasn’t paying attention – disappears up to the taps to fill their jugs.

“Gilli’s nice too, he’s sneaking in vodka shots for nothing.” Merlin’s grin widens just a little and it’s Arthur’s turn to shake his head.

But he’s right in the end, Arthur gets back enough change for only two pitchers and there’s definitely more kick to the beer because Merlin’s barely finished his second glass before he’s laughing like an idiot at the smallest things and his cheeks are flushed. Lance keeps eying him with a soft smile on his face that he seems to be sharing more and more with Gwen and Arthur’s not sure for a moment which one of his friends he needs to defend from Lance’s advances. Not that he’s advancing on anyone, really. Still, Merlin’s laughed himself hoarse and is currently hiccupping over a joke about pineapples he made up himself and Arthur shakes his head.

“You’re a bloody lightweight, Emrys. It’s embarrassing.”

“Your face is embarrassing,” Merlin quips and starts laughing again, not at all helped by Morgana’s bursting cackle of appreciation.  
“You got told, little brother,” she smiles and Arthur rolls his eyes.

“Come on, Merlin, I think it’s time to head home,” he says and Merlin starts pouting.

“Arrrthurrrr – ” he whines, which sets off the whole table snorting into their drinks.

“You’re a fucking disgrace,” Arthur replies getting up, completely ready to drag the other man out if he has to. Maybe a fireman’s lift just to make an impression. Lancelot however, leans down to say something in Merlin’s ear which makes him laugh and blush and then he’s climbing out of the booth over Lance’s lap and giving Morgana and Gwen a full view of his arse because the twat likes jeans that give absolutely everything away at the best of times.

He almost goes sprawling on the floor as he slips off of Lance and it’s only Arthur catching him and hoisting him back to his feet that stops it. He’s still laughing like a hyena. Absolute fucking lightweight.

“Make sure he drinks plenty of water,” Gwen says and that pleasant warmth runs through Arthur when she smiles at him. Arthur salutes and Merlin snorts unappreciatively and that’s that.

Arthur drags him out of the bar and up the road. He starts leaning on Arthur’s shoulder when they’re a block away from the pub and it’s quiet and still, the noise from the bar tapering off to a faint echo. Merlin’s body is warm against his own, but not at all like Gwen, who is soft and sweet. Merlin’s all limbs and muscle and his hair tickles Arthur’s throat. Still, Arthur holds his hand on Merlin’s shoulder to balance him and neither of them speak until they’re almost at the flat. But when Merlin does, it shatters the quiet, even though he’s just mumbling.

“You need to be careful, Puff,” he says.

“What do I need to be careful about?” It’s the third time Merlin’s called him that particular nickname since he moved in and it still doesn’t entirely _make any sense._  
“You need to be careful,” Merlin says again and Arthur’s about to roll his eyes when Merlin keeps talking. “You do, cause Lance is nice. He’s nice and she’s nice and sometimes you’re not very nice. He likes her, you know. He does.”

“I’m not very nice, am I?” Arthur asks, almost on autopilot because there’s some sort of weight to Merlin’s ramblings and he doesn’t want to put the pieces together because he knows it’s not going to be something he’ll like.

He’s right, too, because two days later when Gwen and Morgana come over for a bad movie night, Gwen is dragging Lance along behind her and they’re holding hands and catching each other’s glances like no one’s noticing. Arthur feels sick, this hollow sort of disappointment, like he’s falling and falling and there’s nothing at the bottom to smash him out of this damn melancholy; there just _is_ no bottom. What’s worse is that he can feel Morgana’s eyes on him and every time Lance and Gwen start staring at each other stupidly again, he feels Merlin staring at him and it’s fucking claustrophobic. He has to get out.

So he does, he feints yawning and grumbles something about bed that the offending pair don’t pay much attention to, and that Merlin and Morgana don’t question because by that stage they’re looking at each other with knowing expressions on their faces.

It’s enough to make Arthur want to smash something.

He doesn’t, but he doesn’t sleep that night either.

*

After that Arthur tries desperately to put all his feelings for Gwen into a box he can keep in the back of his head, or under his bed or somewhere that’s not going to get in the way _ever again_. But it doesn’t work. He gets this lurching feeling in his stomach every time he sees them together and it hurts. He’s never felt anything like it before and he doesn’t like it. In turn, he can’t sleep because his head’s full of offending images of Gwen in Lance’s lap making little sounds that _he_ should be eliciting from her. He goes to sleep grouchy and wakes up irritated, and in the interim takes it all out on Merlin, who just _looks_ at him like he knows _everything_ and that doesn’t help in the slightest. Nor does the constant stocking of Arthur’s favourite beer and his favourite crisps or the fact they have take-out Chinese twice in a week when Merlin’s always whinged about it before.

He knows Merlin’s trying to make it better (following his own misguided efforts, which he realises in hindsight, kinda suck), but it doesn’t necessarily help in the slightest. Instead, he takes to avoiding the flat, and Morgana, and somehow winds up at the bar in the city he’s avoided since he finished his first year and got bored of the vapid bimbo’s walking around like advertisements for every beauty product ever available. It’s the type of establishment that seems to breed the upper class marriages these days, and he’s never gone back after his father started asking him about whether he was going to start bringing a girl into the family any time soon.

It’s not the type of place Arthur likes, it makes his skin crawl and there’s a voice in the back of his head now that sounds like Merlin swearing as he reads the price list for all the drinks, which turns into this vague sense of guilt when he orders three and realises he’s just spent Merlin’s food money for a fortnight on booze in ten minutes.

In the end it gets him what he was after because it had always been an easy lay, coming here, and while he’s not pissed off his face when he gets back to the flat like he’d hoped he would be when he left the damn thing, he does have a very pretty girl with her hands inside his jeans. So he can’t really wipe the night off as a complete waste.

Merlin is sitting on the couch with charcoal all over his hands and smudged over his cheeks again when Arthur drags What’s-her-name into the living room, and there’s this moment where he stops urging the girl on and he and Merlin just stare at each other. Merlin’s looking disappointed, but it only lasts for a moment, because What’s-her-face starts laughing at Merlin or Arthur or something and goes about dragging Arthur into a kiss and palming his cock with her other hand. When Arthur looks up again, Merlin is looking determinedly at the page in front of him. What’s-her-face is giggling and pulling him towards the doors on the other side of the room then, asking him which one’s his –

After that there’s a very quick succession between closing the door and What’s-her-face dragging his jeans down and sticking his cock in her mouth. There’s no finesse or pacing or anything in the prelude, it’s all about the act. Arthur’s not even sure what the fuck he’s doing anymore, but the girl seems to know exactly what she’s doing, because he’s seeing stars before he’s ready, drawn out of him by her tongue and the wet heat of her mouth and when he comes she fucking swallows the lot.  
He stops thinking after that.

Merlin doesn’t let him forget afterwards though, because he makes a determined point of not looking Arthur in the face for the next two days, but he’s not alone in reminding Arthur he’s a dick, because Sophia tracks him down again and he becomes intimately acquainted with the fact she has a very talented tongue and very little shame.  
But the bonus is that he doesn’t have to deal with their timid Friday night in the pub, because he’s fucking Sophia over her couch and he doesn’t have to put up with Gwen and Lancelot making doe eyes at each other. Sophia makes a show out of anything and a part of him feels like an asshole for ignoring everyone, but he can’t handle it at the moment and Sophia makes an interesting point by walking around her flat topless quite a lot of the time Arthur’s there.

Still, he knows he’s been in for it after he ditches Friday plans for the second week, but by then, he’s sort of sick of Sophia anyway and he’s definitely sick of Merlin’s short clipped way of talking to him.

And the way there’s nothing to eat in the house that he remotely likes unless he buys it himself.

Still, he’s torn between knowing whether any of it’s been worth it or not when he gets home Monday after class to find Morgana sitting on the couch with her legs crossed to show off six inch fucking heels and this scowl on her face that he used to be terrified of when he was younger. These days he’s just tired of everything. He still doesn’t like it though.  
“I hope you’re proud of yourself,” Morgana says as Arthur toes off his shoes and hangs up his coat, trying to avoid looking at her.

“Why?” he asks, gruffly. He can feel her gaze burning through his back.

“Well, for one thing you sufficiently pissed off Merlin this morning. I had a hard time convincing him not to put holes in all your shoes,” she says like it’s a hardship. Arthur can’t help but think she’s bullshitting because if that had been the case, she probably would have given Merlin the scissors.

“He’s worried about you,” she continues and at this Arthur stills and casts a quick glance at her. “I’m worried about you.”

He can’t hold in the snort that escapes after that. For a second he thinks Morgana looks hurt.

“Oh really?”

“Yes really, Arthur. I was completely aware of your deranged crush on Gwen, but I didn’t think you’d go running back to Castle because she got sick and tired of waiting for you to do anything.”

“Do anything? _Do_ anything? I picked her up three days a week; I bought her coffee and carried her books and asked about – about _windows_. I did a lot!”

“But you didn’t ask her out, did you? She’s _insecure_ , Arthur, I thought you knew that. She wasn’t going to do anything on her own. But you kept waiting for something else and followed her around like a puppy, but you never asked her the question. Lance did and now you’re going to have to deal with that.”

“I am dealing with it,” he scowls and it’s Morgana’s turn to snort in derision.

“Like an adult, Arthur, not like a fifteen year old boy who just learned how nice it is to stick his dick into something that’s not his own hand. Jesus, Arthur – _Sophia Tirmore?_ Could you have been any more desperate?”

“Fuck off.”

“No, pull your fucking head in and stop yelling at Merlin. He’s got just as much going on as you and he doesn’t need you giving him a nervous breakdown. It shouldn’t be contagious.”

“I’m not giving anyone a nervous breakdown.”

“No, you’re just having one yourself.”

“Piss off.”

“Ever so eloquent. I can see Pendragon Incorporated is going to go a long way with you at the helm.”

That’s a low blow and Morgana knows it. She knows she’s gone too far. He just stares at her as she stands up and smooths down her dress.

“Please, Arthur,” she says without taking a step closer to him. “Stop doing this to yourself. There are more people out there than just Gwen, you know.”

It’s when her tirade is over that she chooses to leave and when she does, Arthur is still standing in the middle of the living room staring at the spot on the couch his sister had been sitting in. The flat is empty and over bearing and it stays that way.

Merlin doesn’t come home that night.

*  
Merlin makes the biggest racket the next afternoon when he comes crashing back into the flat. He’s got his arms full of books and a massive sketchpad and this big, black folder-thing that Arthur’s sure wouldn’t fit in the back of his own car, let alone Merlin’s little Citroen. He’s juggling shopping bags in the other hand and everything keeps getting twisted as he tries to manoeuvre through the door, made all the more hilarious as his satchel takes that moment to slip off his shoulder.  
Arthur stands up to help and he gets as far as the closet before Merlin stops and looks up at him, letting everything sort of fall out of his hands like he only just realised Arthur was there.

They both stare at each other for a moment until Arthur feels stupid enough to take another step forward.

“Why on earth have you got so much stuff, Merlin, you idiot? No wonder you can’t get through the door.”

Arthur thinks that may have been the wrong approach as he bends down to pick up the massive folder thingy, but a careful glance up at Merlin and he sees the fixed expression on his friend’s face start to loosen.

“I had stuff to take into class,” he says simply, bending down to hook his satchel back over his shoulder.

“Why on earth have you got so much _stuff_? It’s only third week. I don’t even have exam timetables yet.”

Arthur’s stomach does a pleased little jolt when he hears the amused snort from his housemate as Merlin collects his sketchbooks and textbooks and reaches for the shopping.  
There’s a little less for him to carry then, with Arthur stealing half the shopping bags before Merlin could bunch them all together and the trip to the kitchen is much easier between the two of them.

“I had a consultation with my tutor. There’s a competition he wants me to enter. I had to show him stuff I’ve been doing here.”

“Is that what’s in here?” Arthur asks, hefting up the folder. It’s heavier than it looks and when he looks up at Merlin, still frowning over the folder, there’s an amused twinkle in Merlin’s eye. The ice is melting; this is progress.

“Yes,” Merlin nods, setting his books down on the table and the bags on the side.

“It’s heavy,” Arthur adds, just to test the waters. Merlin doesn’t give anything away because he just nods and starts going through the shopping bags.

“What did Gaius say then?” he probes. Merlin’s expression doesn’t change.

“He likes a few of them, but we haven’t decided on one to enter yet. I’m going to try something this week on canvas and hopefully enter that.”

“When does the entry have to be in by?”

“The fourth of next month, but it’ll need time for freight and stuff so I have to get going soon. At this rate, I might not get an entry in yet, what with working at the store and classes and everything.”

“What’s so wrong with what you’ve got here?”

“It’s not quite good enough, Arthur,” he replies, a flush to his cheeks belying the rolling of his eyes.

“From what I’ve seen, your work’s plenty good enough. I’d say brilliant, but I don’t want your ears to get any bigger.”

That does it; that breaks the ice. Merlin laughs and Arthur knows he was trying to hold it back because when he smiles it’s the one that’s almost in half surprise. Like he didn’t know he was going to and just couldn’t help himself. Arthur, in turn, can’t help but feel a little bit proud of the achievement.

“Come off it, Arthur. You think Van Gogh’s that guy off Doctor Who. Gaius says they need work.”

“Yeah, well, you’re conveniently forgetting that Van Gogh _was_ a guy off Doctor Who. And he’s also in all those stupid books you keep leaving all over the place, so he obviously knew what he was doing.”

Merlin splutters then and stops where he is, one hand holding the fridge door open. Arthur looks smug and he knows its irritating Merlin and it’s fun. He’s missed this.  
“You really are a prat, aren’t you?” Merlin asks then and Arthur rocks on the heels of his boots.

“Apparently. Well, I have been the last few weeks. I’ve been rude amongst other things, especially to you and you didn’t deserve it. I apologise, Merlin, truly.”

The smile drops from Merlin’s face and for a moment Arthur thinks he’s fucked up, but then Merlin’s still looking at him, he’s got this searching look on his face.  
“You really did like her, didn’t you?” he asks solemnly.

Thankfully he doesn’t pressure for an answer and Arthur doesn’t give one.

They put everything away and in the wake of their truce, neither of them brings up Arthur being more of an arse than usual and all of Arthur’s shoes stay intact. Merlin stops avoiding the flat and the Sophia Fiasco falls into legend.

Just in time for Merlin to half-finish his entry to DestinCity Art Prize and then everything goes to pot once again.

*

The Sophia Fiasco doesn’t stay within the boundaries of his friends, which Arthur knows he can blame Morgana for because it feels very much like a reprimand for being an arse from the very moment his father brings her up. The whole situation has Morgana written all over it, not at all helped by his sister’s expressionless composure across the table, which does nothing but aid the sheer panic starting up in Arthur’s gut.

“I had no idea you were looking for a relationship, Arthur,” Uther says, reaching for his wine and eyeing his son over the top of the glass. Arthur desperately wants to kick Morgana because she’s still looking forcibly blank across from him, she doesn’t even have the decency to smirk. But the table is too big for him to get close and he can’t shift under his father’s gaze. If anything, he’s stuck like a bug under a pin with his father leering down at him.

Uther doesn’t need dramatics to demand answers.

“I wouldn’t say a relationship, Father,” he manages to say, but much like he was expecting, it seems to fall on deaf ears.

“Nonsense, Arthur. You’re twenty-one, only a few months left on your degree, it’s almost perfect timing to find yourself a nice girl. Olaf’s daughter, Vivian, is returning from France. She really is a beautiful woman. You could do much worse.”

“Yes, Father,” Arthur nods and smiles because there’s really nothing else he can do except silently promise himself to _get Morgana back so hard she’ll be spitting out pins for weeks,_ not now that Uther Pendragon has made up his mind. Arthur’s long been used to having his life be dealt with like a business transaction when it comes to his father’s input. It’s not something that fazes him anymore. All he can do is cross his fingers behind his back and hope for the best.

That doesn’t save him in the slightest the moment he’s introduced.

Once his father had the idea of Arthur and Vivian there really is no chance in avoiding meeting her, which is what leads him into a solicitous phone call, informing him that his name was now on the list for the latest Pendragon Incorporated charity dinner. There’s no avoiding it, not even the essays due Monday. In fact he has a list of things he’d much rather be doing than hiding near the back of the ballroom. All of which take a very sudden in-climb on his wish list the moment he actually meets Vivian; including clearing out the fridge. A chore he’s been avoiding for weeks. Something that Merlin has been astutely refusing to do because it’s Arthur’s leftovers that are stinking up the shelves. Even if Merlin had been the one to cook them.

Vivian Orwell is blonde and indeed very beautiful, but Arthur quickly finds she’s thicker than six bricks and vainer than anyone Arthur’s ever met in his life. The worst part, however, is her actual personality. For the first half of the banquet she ignores him and insults him with equal farce, (with a fraction of the temerity and barb of Morgana) which then seems to flip halfway through the dinner, simpering and giggling and being generally even more irritating. It’s almost like she’s taken Arthur’s long-honed charm and all but worn-through patience at face value all of a sudden. It would almost be amusing if it wasn’t _actually_ a bit terrifying.

He’s not afraid of admitting to Merlin once he gets home, that he spent half the night pointedly orchestrating situations he could easily escape from if his previous attempts to avoid her had suddenly failed. Which a few of them had. He doesn’t tell Merlin about hiding in the gents in his father’s banquet hall at Pendragon Towers for half an hour, though. That’s a step on his dignity too far, thank you.

Still, by the end of the night, he couldn’t think of a single thing that he’s ever done to warrant dealing with Vivian as punishment.

“I’m sorry, Merlin, I am,” he says almost the moment he’s inside the flat, toeing off his shoes and yanking at his tie. “I like you and I apologise for acting like a dick, but dealing with _that woman_ is not an equal exchange. That was just _cruel_.”

Merlin just laughs, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the lounge with a canvas propped up against the coffee table, staring at Arthur with white paint almost up to his elbows.  
“Morgana?” he asks searching the space around him for the cap on his white paint.

“Vivian,” he pouts.

“Ah,” Merlin grins, still packing away his paints. “That’s the one your father mentioned, right?”

“Yes. I _was_ hoping that he wouldn’t go this far, but that’s Uther; never count on him for anything except if it needs money thrown at it. I’d throw money at Vivian if it meant she’d _go away_.”

“Doesn’t she have enough of her own? Anyway, you never _have_ to see her again now, right?” Merlin shrugs, looking much happier than he has for a while and Arthur can’t help but scowl. “I mean, if it didn’t go well you can just avoid her.”

“No reason to look so pleased in the face of my misery, _Mer_ lin.”

That just makes his smile grow a little wider.

“Hey, you were the one acting like an ogre for two weeks. For a while I wasn’t sure whether I’d still have somewhere to live the way you kept on and _that’s_ cause we ran out of milk. Which _you_ drank, by the way.”

Arthur stops and thinks then, because that sort of rings a bell, but he’s spent the last few weeks trying to avoid things with all of his might. He knew he was being an arse, but he’s not particularly sure Merlin is joking about the not-having-a-flat thing and that’s upsetting. It sounds like something he’d say, which is not something he’s particularly proud of.  
“I promise I’ll never kick you out as long as there’s milk in the fridge, Merlin,” he says, trying to hide how serious he’s being under a thinly veiled joke. He’s not particularly sure if Merlin gets it or not because he’s still packing all his paints away.

Arthur walks around him to settle behind him on the couch in full view of the painting Merlin’s been working on. Merlin’s been working on it off and on for the last week, but even still Arthur’s not seen much of it beyond the very start where it had been white paint ( _“It’s primer, Arthur, primer. Not paint.” “Well it looks like paint.” “Well you look well adjusted, just because it looks like something doesn’t mean it is.”_ ) and charcoal in these long swooping lines that hadn’t really come together in any way, shape or form to Arthur. He’s been running himself ragged over the last few days dealing with his father and he’s missed most of the interim. It looks almost finished now, and it’s _good_.  
He knows he’s been thinking that pretty much about everything of Merlin’s he’s come across, but growing up in a world of privilege gave him a jaded view on the art world from a young age, as he was forced to interact with the snobbish bores at banquets and corporate dinners and fundraisers who all took themselves so seriously. Their art had never made _sense_ to Arthur; it had all been so worthless. He half guesses the difference with Merlin is because it’s _Merlin_ and he knows how much it means. He knows how much passion Merlin has and there’s this way his friend manages to capture some part of that emotion into his work – whether it be his graphite portraits or apparently his paintings – that really just astounds Arthur. He doesn’t understand the techniques involved, the brush strokes or what type of paint Merlin’s even using, but he likes what he sees, the fierce matted paint dissolving from its white background through a tonal shift of greys and teasing colour into two lovers, holding each other. It’s an interconnected web of shape and light and dark and there’s no recognition in Arthur’s gut when he looks at their faces in the painting, even though Merlin’s taken his graphite to the canvas and melded the two mediums together. It’s intricate and rather striking.

“You’ve been busy,” he nods at it and Merlin colours.

“Yeah, it got away with me. I don’t know if it’s quite what Gaius wanted, but I want to enter it anyway.”

“You should, it’s good,” Arthur says, feeling how inadequate his praise is. Merlin shifts and squirms on the floor for a moment though, like it was high praise indeed.

“We’ll see,” Merlin says, still red about the ears and he collects the last of his supplies and drags the painting back into his bedroom.

Arthur doesn’t see it again.

*


	3. Part Three

*

** Part Three **

*****

**_The heart has reasons that reason does not understand._  
Jacques Benigne Bossuel**

*

  
The thing about university that Arthur rather quite likes is the distance his father gives him in which to study and survive as he sees fit. During term, he barely hears from the man, let alone sees him. His long-standing secretary, Helen, calls Arthur to check in once a fortnight and Uther seems to know his university results hours (if not days) before Arthur does, but Uther himself is a rare physical occurrence in his life. Which does little to make up for the crushing desire to please he’s instilled in Arthur over the years.  
However, every once and a while, Uther takes it upon himself to suddenly _be involved_ with their lives, which mostly means demanding them to dinner in a long stuffy room at a massive oak table that reminds Arthur of all those Period dramas he caught Morgana watching when they were teenagers and that he was never allowed to bring up else she’d cut off his bollocks.

Even worse, in Arthur’s view, is the Pendragon Incorporated dinners and functions Uther makes him attend. It’s all in the lead up to his taking over the company at some indefinite point in the future, he knows, but Arthur’s half convinced that his father would take it upon himself to simply not die to avoid having to give up his company. But that doesn’t stop him from laying demands on his legacy, and Arthur knows that if it wasn’t for the fact that his father works with Leon, Owaine and Bedivere’s parents, and they in turn are forced to attend a lot of the same functions, he would have snapped a long time ago and possibly told the lot of old fogies exactly what he thought of them and just where they could all shove Pendragon Incorporated.

Still, despite having his old friends around, the banquets are never something he enjoys. He likes good suits, it’s something he’ll never admit, but he likes the way they make him feel important. He _doesn’t_ like tuxedos. They’re penguin suits and he doesn’t like bow ties. He looks ridiculous to the point that even Merlin was laughing at him before he left the flat.

Which is what makes it strange when he meets Elena Godwin again. Elena’s father, Kingston, was one of his father’s associates, who had drawn Uther’s attention around the time Arthur had been finishing college. At the time, Uthur and Kingston had shoved them together to keep them both entertained while they talked shop and she had wound up making a sharp impression on his life he wasn’t going to forget. She had been before Merlin and Gwen and his father’s mounting pressure took a giant leap forward in its expectations. She’d been a comfort to him then, but much like Morgana, she had never been afraid of laughing in his face. Which he’d always considered fair play because she’d had a habit of tripping over her own feet if she was anything but barefoot, and speaking her mind in the most unsuitable of situations.

Still, it’s oddly comforting when he sees her again. A feeling made even better when the first thing she does is laugh at him in the damn penguin suit.

And then proceed to trip over herself as she tries to finish walking across the room to join him. It’s enough to soothe his annoyance and make him start to smile, which he hasn’t managed since the moment he entered the damn ballroom.

“Arthur,” she says, panting and a little bit flushed. Owaine’s just sort of staring, which almost makes Arthur laugh because there has always been something particularly special about Elena, something that he’s never really been able to work out. But his favourite thing about her had always been how simply grounded and _normal_ she was despite growing up in the same sort of madhouse world that he and Morgana had had to survive. It had been a feature of hers that had drawn him to her when he was seventeen and needing somewhere to guide his own misgivings on romance. She’d been oddly accepting of it at the time.

A part of him knows now that craving for someone normal, outside of their money crazed lives is something that had drawn him to Gwen years after Elena, but Elena had been the first.

“Elena,” he grins and reaches down to kiss her cheek. Her hair is pinned back haphazardly, but he knows it’s as hacked short as it had been the last time he’d seen her and she’d much rather be wearing the suit he is than the dress she’s got on. But she’s grown into it, which is nice. She’d been rather insecure about all the things he’d adored when they’d parted.

“It’s good to see you in your continued grace,” he smirks and rejoices a little in the happy scowl she’s wearing and how she hits him, even if he knows it’ll bruise. Owaine is still just sort of watching her and Leon’s cottoned on to their friend’s dumb shock.

“Does anyone need a refill? I’m going back to the bar,” he says and Arthur has to stop himself from all out laughing when Elena perks up immediately.

“Oh, thank Christ, yes. See if they’ll do a triple vodka or something will you, doll?”

Leon just sort of smiles in that way that Arthur knows is him laughing on the inside and half drags Owaine away. God knows where Bedivere’s got himself to.  
“Your friends are very strange, Arthur,” Elena says, scrunching up her face and it’s enough to make him start laughing again.

“They are, though those two have nothing on Merlin. He’s my flat mate and an utter imbecile. You’d get on.”

“Oi, just because we haven’t been friends for a long time, Arthur, doesn’t mean you automatically regain the ability to insult me. Your father is trying to buy out the firm again. You need me.”

“Father needs your father, I need no one. I have, however, missed your company, you know,” he says, with the utmost sincerity, but he knows from the look on her face she thinks he’s pulling her leg.

“And your erstwhile charm reveals itself again. You always were a Casanova, Pendragon. It suits you, don’t stop.”

That makes him laugh again. She’s not quite the completely awkward bumbling girl he knew. She’s got something to her now, a confidence and a snark that’s refreshing.  
“What have you been doing since I saw you last?” he asks, not bothering to disguise the incredulity in his voice.

“I’m at Camelot Uni, same as you, Arthur.”

“Studying law?”

“Well the practice will be mine one day, you know. I do my duty just as much as you are doing yours for PenInc. Perhaps one day when I’m a lawyer you can use my company to ensure you don’t lose everything in a silly divorce from a flaky woman you never should have married in the first place,” she grins and that has him laughing again.

“Well, I’ll have to let you know,” he smiles, “because there’s no girls in my life at the moment.”

“No?”

“Not right now,” he says, this time trying to pin back the wave of disappointment and jealousy that rears its head whenever he still even thinks of Gwen. It’s not fair in the slightest.  
But all the same, as the night drags on, Elena’s company manages to push his petty moping almost completely out of his head for the first time since he left Gwen and Lance mooning at each other on his couch. It leaves him with a smile he can’t quite get off his face after he’s left the banquet either, the taste of her lips still lingering on his tongue and the feel of her body pressed against his own, echoing in his fingertips.

He’s not sure if it’s an after effect of the expensive champagne they’d stolen and drank between them on the roof of the building, or whether it’s just the effect of spending so much time in her refreshing company, but he doesn’t regret kissing her. Which is strange.

His history with Elena Godwin is complicated, so much so he hasn’t really talked about it with anyone since it had ended. Not that it had ended badly per se. His father had been busting to try and buy out Godwin’s lawyer practice and put one of Camelot’s best firms right in his personal pocket. Over the course of his father’s juncture, he’d encouraged both Arthur and Morgana to befriend Godwin’s daughter, Elena, a bumbling awkward girl at the time with wild hair and little manners or social grace. Elena had been insecure and the complete and utter opposite of everything girls were in the circles Arthur had walked and he’d been foolish and eager to please, desperate for his father’s approval. He had found her fascinating, more so than any other girl he’d met before. He’d cautiously started dating her and before they’d really known what they were doing, dating had turned into ‘potentially marrying’ and it had taken a few short sharp bursts of common sense before they put a stop to it. Still, there had been something about Elena then, something that had intrigued him enough to get as far as he did towards marrying her (and securing his father’s business deal in the process) and also enough to keep his affection well in place despite their amicable breakup. His affection had never been anything bright and bursting, not like what he felt for Gwen. It had been subtle, curious, and while that still remained, her self-confidence and sharper wit seems to fan that curiosity into something sharper and burning merrily before he realises what is happening.

Before he realises it, after that first night at his father’s banquet, he’s seeing Elena off and on for almost a month and even better still is that he’s constantly, genuinely eager to see her every time. It’s almost startlingly easy for his affection to grow from that first night to the point where he’s no longer prone to feeling that lurching sense of jealousy whenever he looks at Gwen, who has been looking positively radiant and happy. His sudden affection for Elena even stops him hating Lancelot on principle, which is something he didn’t think he’d get past. The whole sense of it is strange, but not entirely unwelcome. It’s like what he almost wanted out of Sophia, but half a million times better and without the residual guilt. The only real downside is the smug look on his father’s face the next time he’s called to Pendragon Manor for dinner and the erstwhile questions Uther throws at him one by one. The difference this time is that his affection for Elena is completely on his own terms. Last time it had grown out of his father forcing them together, time and time again, while he and Godwin talked shop. The only disadvantage to the whole thing is that Arthur feels this burning mix of half pride half shame when Uther tells him he approves.

Almost to compensate, he spends more time with her than ever and finds himself with no regret in the slightest. Elena is studying law at Camelot University, but her conviction for the practice is far overshadowed by her love of horses, and while his final year starts to weigh in on him as the weeks go by, his weekends are suddenly a lighter weight on his shoulders than his father’s expectations have previously been. Elena spends the entirety of her Saturdays on her horse on the trails around Camelot and Arthur finds himself looking forward to following her. He hasn’t ridden this much since the last time he dated her, and it’s something that he realises quickly he stopped pretty much around the same time he stopped seeing her. It’s a disconcerting realisation, really, because he hasn’t thought of her in years and it’s strange to think she’d had such an effect on him.

Still, there’s a distinct freedom in escaping the city, and despite the absence of pressures, he doesn’t find himself thinking about Gwen and Lance or about his father’s sudden smug expectations. Even better still, his friends don’t harp on him for missing out on their gatherings because the next time he manages to bring Elena along and they all seem to like her. Well, Morgana had raised an eyebrow when he’d mentioned her and just asked “Elena Godwin? Again, Arthur? Really?” which had set off Merlin asking questions and Morgana had told stories of walking in on them making out and how red Arthur had been, all sexually frustrated and grumpy for days afterwards.

It’s not a particularly enjoyable afternoon from his perspective, but Morgana is polite and Merlin is…well, _Merlin_ when he brings Elena to their Friday night at the pub and that’s that. The others just sort of envelop her without any unnecessary angsting or anything. It’s almost disconcerting, really. He’s half expecting Morgana to bring up his unnecessary crush on Gwen just to make things awkward, but the night goes particularly well. Merlin and Elena end up trying to one up each other, telling stories about their clumsy escapades and Arthur spends too much of his time laughing at the pair of them, quietly despairing at his choice in friends to even notice how Lance has his arm around Gwen. Or how she’s leaning into him, smiling and whispering into his ear.

Or, rather, he _notices_ , but he doesn’t actually care.

Elena trips over her own feet and she treads on his toes, she outdrinks nearly everyone and she wears this expression on her face that’s all _oh really_ , or _is that it?_ And he’s never been goaded into anything so often since he was six and Morgana knew how to push all the right buttons and he was too thick to realise she was doing it all on purpose.

Elena is refreshing, she makes curling up in his room avoiding course work amazing, because she can’t sit still and she invariably knees him in the balls more than once, but then she gets this look on her face and he has to forgive her for everything. She makes him laugh more than anyone he knows, bar Merlin. She drags this sense of freedom into him that is so encompassing that he barely realises he needs to really start studying for his final exams until Merlin starts borrowing an infinite amount of very large art books that he starts stacking everywhere in the flat, like installation art pieces commenting on the weight of final works and a student’s ability to procrastinate.

Arthur gets out a red pen and sticks a piece of paper to the front of the largest, taking up the space where the coffee table used to be right next to the couch, giving it an A+. Merlin draws a smiley face on it and they both pretend to know what they’re doing for a while.

*

A significant part of him isn’t at all surprised when his father calls on him in the lead up to exams. It’s not something Uther has done consistently through his university degree, but these are his final marks and he’s aware of the pressure lurking in the corner long before his father calls him, as if to remind him that he’s been poking those expectations with sticks for years and Arthur’s about to get mauled to pieces unless he performs. But all the same, a part of him is always a little surprised when Uther seems to remember he’s there. He’s never come out of a phone call direct from Uther without feeling like he needs to immediately run outside and discover a cure to world hunger, if only to find some way of making the man understand that he knows what’s required of him and that he can exceed expectations. The petty part of him that he hasn’t let have access to his vocal chords for over a decade immediately starts whining _it’s not fair, everything I do is never enough. Why isn’t it ever enough?_ But it’s a mantra uttered so often it’s just epic sulking more than anything else. These days it’s peppered with swearing and scowling, and afterwards he just feels tired. Sick and tired of one requirement after another – rules and warnings and expectations; _it would be below the dignity of a Pendragon to not get a First, don’t let that girl distract you,_ just weeks after demands he settle down. It’s enough to drive anyone mad, he’s sure, and Merlin just purses his lips and says nothing when Arthur gets off the phone after another warning.

  
They’re little if not warnings.

It’s practically all building up to a breakdown of the finest kind until Merlin distracts everyone by succeeding and being stupidly surprised by it all. Merlin calls him three chapters into his ten-chapter revision textbook, three weeks before exams start, and he knows before he’s even answered the call that he’s not going to get anything else done for the afternoon.

Still, it’s a nice surprise that his procrastination is going to a good cause when Merlin starts shouting gibberish down the phone line the moment he’s answered.  
“Calm down, you pillock; what’s happened?” he asks, tossing his notes aside and swapping the phone into his other hand.

“ _My painting got accepted. It got accepted. DestinCity. I’m a top ten finalist!_ ” he sounds breathless and a bit mad over the phone and Arthur has a pleasant moment imagining what Merlin’s excitement looks like _right at that moment_ and there’s nothing his father could say about him or Elena or the expectations of the family legacy that could put a dampener on the joyous rush running through him right then. It makes him laugh and it makes Merlin laugh and he can practically feel the disbelief.

“You really didn’t think you’d get through, didn’t you?” he asks, knowing he’s bringing the mood down a beat. Merlin’s too frazzled to care much, it seems, and he carries on with his bright effervescence, even in the midst of normal self-deprecation, and for that moment Arthur realises how much he’s _missed_ this in the space of their separate panicking.

“ _I really didn’t. This is crazy, Arthur. My painting’s gonna be in an art museum. An_ art museum. _Shit, I gotta call Gwen. And Lance. And Morgana. Shit, Arthur, I gotta go. I’ll call you back?_ ”

“Merlin, did you call me first?” he asks, teasing, feeling stupidly pleased that maybe he was.

“ _Yes?_ ” Merlin says, more like a question and Arthur can’t help but grin as Merlin keeps nattering like he’s half out of breath. “ _Shit, Arthur, I got in._ I got in.”  
“God knows why, you oaf,” Arthur laughs. “Come back here after you’re done on campus, alright? I’ll get the booze. Tonight we celebrate.”

Merlin just giggles, still breathless and hyper and Arthur can’t get the smile off his face when he hangs up.

He opens a message screen and texts Elena the news, because as polite and nice Merlin is, Arthur’s girlfriend isn’t someone he’s going to call. Then he texts Morgana, still smiling, just to tease.

 **To: Harpy**  
15:09  
Wherever you are and  
whatever you’re doing,  
stop. Get your coat.  
Leave dignity at home.  
Merlin’s got news.  
Bring mixers.

 

He doesn’t even have to wait long before his phone’s buzzing in his hand and he snorts when he opens the message from his sister.

 

 **From: Harpy**  
15:13  
I was doing something  
important, cretin. What  
type of news?

 

He doesn’t want to spoil Merlin’s gushing in the slightest, but he also knows that Morgana’s going to be difficult with him just because she can be. He texts her one handed as he pockets his wallet and keys, leaving his mess of notes all over the table. He can clean them up when he gets back and he doesn’t want to have to leave the house again after Merlin’s arrived and he has the idiot to tease and feed vodka shots to and enjoy the way the slightest praise of his work gets the moron blushing like it’s going out of fashion, but explicit innuendos just get him talking and talking. Which, in turn, makes Gwen and Morgana start laughing, and while Arthur doesn’t need to know _anything at all_ about his sister’s sex life, a smashed Merlin is too much fun to pass up. Something he knows Morgana knows as well.

 **To: Harpy**  
15:17  
The good kind. He’ll get  
to you eventually, loser.  
He called me first.  
Bring mixers.

 

 **: Harpy**  
15:19  
Would you like a first  
place ribbon? Merlin  
adores you. God knows  
why. You’d probably cry  
if he didn’t call you first.  
Get off the couch and  
buy your own mixers.

 

She replies as he’s putting his shoes on and heading out the door. He makes a point of not answering her while he’s driving, but by the time he’s reached the off licence, he’s got two texts, one from Elena saying she’ll be late and one from Morgana. He has a strong suspicion, even before he opens it, that Merlin’s finally got around to calling her, unless Gwen had spent twenty minutes spaffing at him over the phone, which she might have.

 

 **From: Harpy**  
15:42  
Isn’t he adorable when  
he realises how good he  
is? See you in 40. I’ll bring  
booze. And Gwen.

 

He snorts as he reads the message and makes sure to buy twice as many bottles of Coke and Irn Bru as he normally would, because he wouldn’t put it past Morgana just to bring booze to spite him. Gwen on the other hand… He buys the fizzy pop anyway as well as two large bottles of vodka and a smaller of tequila, which he tucks away in the cupboard for later in the evening because tonight is about getting Merlin absolutely trashed to all fuck and he really wants to see just what happens when Merlin gets on tequila. Last time Morgana brought it up, the look on Merlin’s face had spoken only of bad experience and stories Arthur wants to hear more than life itself. He avoids the beer because beer makes Merlin stupid drunk and he wants tonight to be so damn fucking excellent Merlin can’t remember a moment of it.

He buys crisps as well because he knows Merlin’s going to complain if they don’t have any and because his friends are liars if they say he doesn’t know how to organise a good party. Well, Leon and the others had always been rather pleased with how his piss ups went and the only complaining Merlin had last time was because he’d drank too much, which had been his own fault, really. Arthur has a distinct memory of Gwen trying to take the bottle off him and Merlin dancing on the couch out of her reach swigging straight vodka with a grin on his face, laughing at Gwen because he’d been so drunk he couldn’t taste a thing. He’d fallen off the couch, if Arthur’s memory served him correctly.

Still, Arthur buys enough absolute crap that the only thing they’re going to even need thinking about is pizza at arse o’clock and they can get that delivered. He feels a little bit like a football mum or some shit, preparing for a six year old’s birthday party as he lugs the bags up the stairs to the flat, but thankfully Morgana is true to her word. He’s had enough time to pack all his shit away before even Merlin gets there and he can pretend that all he did was buy booze and nothing more because he knows if Morgana gets wind of him thinking ahead, or whatever she bloody well calls it, he’s going to get ripped into.

He’s putting away all his notes when he hears the front door open and then a series of crashes. That means it can only be Merlin, because no one Arthur knows has the ability to trip over his own feet as much as his flat mate, not even Elena. True to form, it’s Merlin’s voice that shouts out a hello from the hallway as Arthur shuts the drawer and swaggers over to lean in the doorway. He folds his arms and just watches as Merlin finishes dropping all his bloody folders and sketchbooks all over the floor like he does every time he comes back from a practical tutorial.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the resident artist,” Arthur quips and he has to hold back a laugh as Merlin starts grinning and blushing and proceeds to trip over his art folder again as he stands upright.

“You know, Merlin, I think they might take their recommendations back if they knew just how clumsy you are. You’ll have to make doubly sure you don’t trip over yourself and ruin a statue made out of tin cans worth more than your car.”

“I can’t believe they picked me,” Merlin just grins, dopily, and this time Arthur can’t hold back.

“You really are an idiot, Merlin,” he says, shaking his head. Merlin’s blush sort of grows a bit and he hangs his head, hiding behind his fringe, which does nothing to hide the red tinge to his ears. He’s disturbingly adorable, Merlin is. Which is an observation he’s sort of stolen off his sister and one he’s never, ever going to say out loud. Ever.  
Still, it’s sort of true.

“The others should be here soon.”

“Morgana said she was. You don’t have to –” Merlin starts to say, but Arthur pushes himself off the doorway and just shakes his head.

“Shut up, Merlin. It’s not often the world acknowledges how brilliant you are, so tonight we’re going to get pissed.”

“Still, you don’t – ”

“Oh God, is he spluttering and being self deprecating again?” Morgana’s voice calls from the doorway, a moment before there’s a bustling _thud_ as the bags hit the wall as they come in. Merlin had clearly not shut the door properly, but it’s an entrance that makes Merlin grin and splutter even more, the blush climbing down his neck and Arthur has to give it to his sister.

“I was not –”  
“You were so, Merlin. Shut up,” he grins and goes over to take the bags off Morgana just in time to see Gwen drop her own and drag Merlin down into a hug.

“You’re early,” he says to his sister as she follows him into the kitchen. She just watches as he unpacks the bag – the bitch _actually_ bought mixers as well, he should have known she would – enjoying the rattle of glass on glass as her own spirit bottles clank against his as he shoves them into the freezer.

“It was faster at the off licence than we thought,” she shrugs. “Who else is coming?”

“I’m guessing Merlin called Lance. He said he was. Elena will be over later. Is there anyone else?”

“You could have invited the whole art class and Merlin wouldn’t blink. He knows everyone.”

“I know. This is enough. We’ve got enough booze to kill him if he keeps saying he doesn’t deserve it.”

“So you went shopping, did you?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to leave it up to you. For all I know you’d just buy that green melon shit and that’s all.”

“We did. Gwen has it. Besides, Merlin likes Midori. He’s a delightful little gay boy, Arthur, and we’re his fag hags. We enjoy frilly cocktails. If you don’t, you should have bought yourself your manly beer and be done with it.”

“I’m not drinking any of your stupid drinks.”

“You’ll just be the odd one out, Arthur. Gwen can get Lance to drink anything she wants him to, and besides, Gwen’s not the first in this group he’s snogged.”

“Stop talking about snogging Merlin. Seriously. We’re not playing spin the bottle. The last thing I ever want to have to do is kiss _you_.”

“Why are you kissing Morgana?” Merlin takes that moment to ask and it’s Arthur’s turn to blush and Morgana’s turn to laugh. Merlin’s still sort of flushed and Gwen is smiling as she puts the bags she was carrying up on the bench for Arthur to unpack. Merlin, of course, goes snooping which is all the distraction he needs to finish that conversation and Arthur is grateful.

“Are these – you did. You _did_.”

Merlin’s eyes are wide as he strikes it rich and he’s wearing one of those stupid smiles that makes everyone in the room try and copy him no matter how miserable they want to be. It’s not the reaction bottles of blue and green shit and packets of Haribo deserve, but considering the situation, Arthur doesn’t say anything. Partially because he knows if he bitches about them then it’s just going to be Morgana’s duty throughout the night to try and get him to drink their stupid cocktails. He’s not going to give her the satisfaction.

Except he sort of does, because by the time Elena arrives an hour after Lance, they’ve been drinking since half four and Merlin’s upside down on the couch wearing a silly drinking straw that’s longer than he is tall, looping around his head before leading over to the coffee table where he’s got a bloody pint glass full of something shocking and blue. He’s got a lurid pink sock on one hand as a sock puppet that he keeps using to kiss Morgana’s kneecaps where she’s sprawled on the couch next to him. She’s drinking something similar out of a martini glass and making sure the idiot doesn’t kill himself drinking upside down.

The flat is a wreck and Elena takes one look at Arthur, who is not ashamed to admit by that stage, is just as wasted as Merlin. He’s lost his shirt somewhere by then, Merlin’s drawn all over his back and chest in magic marker and he’s drinking something green and fruity from a coffee cup, because it’s not a cocktail if you can’t see the colour.

His girlfriend just laughs at him, steals his tinfoil crown and runs across the room to kiss Merlin on both cheeks and further spike the punch bowl of blue shit with something clear.  
It’s the best night he’s had in months and he doesn’t even care that Gwen spends practically the whole night in Lance’s lap.

 

*

  
It’s nearly twelve by the time he wakes up, facing the wrong way around in his bed with Merlin’s feet in his face, but that’s nothing compared to the dryness of his mouth and the crusty film around his eyes. There’s a note from the others on the kitchen table when he stumbles out into the living room and the place is half clean already, which Arthur sort of thinks is probably Lance’s fault because the man can’t withstand the idea of putting someone out. Except when it comes to going out with Gwen.

Feeling petty and sour, he stumbles into the bathroom and it’s only when he’s staring blearily at himself in the mirror that he remembers being sat on for twenty minutes and letting Merlin draw all over him while Morgana held his legs and the others shouted ideas. Not that the montage unfolding over his back and chest doesn’t already reek of Merlin. There’s a cartoon dragon over his back that’s actually quite striking, but the idiot ruins the whole thing by turning the dragon gay and kidnapping the Prince Charming, letting the princess go instead. It’s complete, of course, by Morgana scrawling ‘Arthur’ with a giant arrow towards the Prince now trapped in the tower being stared at longingly by the dragon (comedy love heart included) drawn over his left pectoral. He’s about to get annoyed, but then he turns around and written like a tramp stamp just above his arse with another arrow pointing down is ‘The Cave of Andor’, which isn’t something that he knows the reference to, but has Morgana’s folklore written alllll over it and he’s not too hungover to be angry. Plus, knowing his sister, it’s not something he wants to know _at all ever_ , so he ignores it, seethes quietly and goes for a shower instead.

The marker is harder to get off than he’d like and he’s aware of the faint outlines still drawn all over him when he gets out. Merlin is still asleep in Arthur’s bed and the discontent part of him wants to kick him out and make him go sleep in his own bed next door now the girls have left. He leaves him be, mostly because someone went to town on Merlin’s face with the marker and while he’s just got the semi-traditional moustache and monocle, it still makes Arthur snort happily and leave him to sleep, but only after there are three new pictures on his phone carefully saved for blackmail later.

Merlin doesn’t emerge for another hour and a half after that, and when he does, he nearly trips over his own feet walking from Arthur’s bedroom to the lounge where he collapses and groans.

“What did you do to me?” he mumbles and that makes Arthur laugh around his third bacon sandwich.

“Toasted your success,” he grins and Merlin groans again, somewhat dramatically.

“The only success going on here is your ability to kill me. What did you make me drink, you wankers?”

“There was vodka and that blue and green fruit crap Morgana and Gwen brought, and I think Elena spiked the blue stuff with gin when she got here. You drank a lot of it.”

Merlin just groans again and makes an abortive hand gesture over the back of the couch Arthur thinks might have been Merlin flipping him the bird. Arthur can just see his mop of black hair poking out over the edge of the armrest.

“I feel pickled,” Merlin whimpers and a small part of Arthur feels a bit sorry for him, but then he combats it by texting Morgana to tell her Merlin’s awake as per her request. Her reply is immediate.

“Morgana calls you a lazy bitch. It’s half two, Merlin.”

“It’s a Saturday,” he groans.

“It’s Friday, actually,” Arthur points out and Merlin sits up far too quickly and Arthur watches all the blood drain out of his face.  
“ _What?”_

Arthur laughs.

“Sorry, it’s the weekend, you idiot. Sorry. Calm down before you puke everywhere. I’m not cleaning it up.”

He flops backwards and whimpers again and this time Arthur leaves him be. Neither of them say anything, and it’s only when he gets up to make another cup of tea that he realises Merlin’s gone back to fucking sleep on the couch.

 

*

 

None of them have enough time to do anything but study and revise and work on major projects and portfolios after that. There’s absolutely no time for socialising and it makes Arthur antsy again, but while Merlin doesn’t have exams to stress over, he makes up his fair share being a drama queen over his portfolio and the essays he has to submit to finish up his degree, all the while juggling his shifts at the art store. There’s very little regularity in Merlin’s shifts, so a part of Arthur pities him the stress of it all, but mostly because he doesn’t know how he’d function without his routine.

He falls into his previously worked out pattern with relative ease; waking up at seven, going to the gym for an hour and then working as hard as he can until half nine at night and going to bed, regardless of what he has or hasn’t done because he knows if he doesn’t sleep and doesn’t run then nothing is going to stay in his head. It’s a process his father drilled into him when he was young, the importance of routine in maintaining control over one’s life and from there, one’s company. It’s something the very existence of Morgana and himself seems to contradict, the sheer chaos of children faced against his father’s love of discipline, expectation and routine. But it’s something that’s worked for him for years, with proven results. Results well enough to get him into Camelot University on his own merits and well on track for a First when he graduates, which surely should sate his father a little. If the man has any sort of faith in Arthur’s ability to not fuck everything up. Merlin, on the other hand, seems to spiral out of control and seems perfectly content in his self-destruction. There are a few days where Arthur’s pretty sure that flat mate hasn’t slept for two days. The living room has been taken over by paper everywhere, interrupted by his big black folders, folios, canvases, and textbook installations that Arthur doesn’t pay any attention to because he doesn’t have time. Unless they’re choosing to eat at the same time, neither one of them spends any companionable time with each other without a sandwich in one hand. It’s not something Arthur commends them for, but he doesn’t spend much time with anyone else either. But this is their last year, except for both Elena and Lance, Lance who has another year to go because he took two years off before he went to university, and Elena has two because she’s a year younger and a law degree is four years of hell instead of Arthur’s economics three.

Still, the moment he walks out of his very last exam to find Elena waiting for him on the steps outside the exam hall, he’s never felt as vibrantly free and just a bit hysterical as he does right at that moment.

“I’m done!” he crows with victory. Elena laughs at him and hits him as he drags her into a celebratory kiss. He knows he’s going to get a bruise, but he actually doesn’t care as he slides his hands up under the edge of her top and settles at the warmth of her skin. He can’t make himself care about anything else, right then. It’s all been leading up to this moment and right now he knows that there’s _nothing he can do anymore._ He’s either going to meet expectations or three years of his life, three very long and dedicated years, have just gone to waste. He’ll never live it down, even if he is still going to work for his father regardless of the outcome, even if it means working in the mailroom and taking orders for coffee. But as of right this moment, he’s as free as he’s ever going to be. Without repose or responsibility.

He’s going to get so drunk he can’t stand or see and he’s going to kiss his girlfriend until she makes him stop or whether she gives in and lets him fuck her, regardless of whether his friends are in the living room or not.

He’s going to feed Merlin tequila and make him answer embarrassing questions, and he’s going to make Morgana threaten him into anything he can and it’s going to be brilliant.  
In the end, it’s just as brilliant as he was hoping and twice as bad as he was fearing; no one has any intention of holding back now that they’re under the same umbrella as Arthur. Years of work suddenly culminating in this moment of freedom. They’re done. Done.

They haven’t graduated yet, that will take months, but unless something goes horrifically wrong and their names and results get posted under someone else’s name for some reason, none of them are particularly worried about bad marks. They’ve all worked too hard for that; Merlin with his fine art, Gwen with her art history, Morgana with her Medieval History and Arthur with his Business and Economics.

They’re all blindingly happy until they all start passing out, which is why it’s rather strange when he stirs on the couch after collapsing somewhere around three a.m., to the sound of hushed whispers. Elena is asleep over his left arm and it’s gone dead so he’s got no sense of moving any time soon even if he wanted to, content and booze hazy with the warmth of her pressed close, her breathing soft and rhythmic, the smell of her hair and her skin soothing against the warping rush of too much booze. He’s drifting back to sleep when the sound of hushed fighting seems to permeate the fog that’s filled his brain along with drinking shots and too much pizza. What’s stranger still as he fights back the fog, is that it’s Gwen’s voice that registers first. Not that he can understand what they’re saying, but the longer he listens the more he recognises Lance out of the haze.

He only half remembers the ten minutes he stirred from his booze coma the next day when he stumbles out of the shower into what’s clearly a heart-to-heart between Gwen and Merlin. Normally that would be enough to send him scurrying, but the look on Gwen’s face seems to connect to the hazy memories floating in his head of the night before and his concern rises like a dog’s hackles.

Gwen and Merlin take a moment to realise he’s there and when they do, Gwen blushes and mumbles incoherently at the pair of them and Merlin looks away, determinedly, biting his lip.

He’s not stupid; he knows when he’s not wanted.

Still, it leaves him unsettled and the feeling doesn’t go away.

None of them are feeling up for anything more for the rest of the day other than oozing all over the furniture and whinging about their lack of morals and inhibitions the night before. No one is particularly vocal, nor particularly focussed on anything going on. Arthur’s pretty sure no one has paid any attention to what’s been on the television for at least the last hour and he wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest if no one could actually tell him what’s playing.

All the same, he’s pretty sure he’s not the only one who notices when Gwen slips away, only for Lance to follow a few minutes later. Morgana makes a half-hearted noise like a cat when Merlin starts doing something with her hair, but she settles into it soon enough. Arthur’s not stupid or hung-over enough to miss recognising Merlin distracting himself and there’s an uneasy blanket over the room that doesn’t seem to go away, especially when Gwen returns sometime later with flushed cheeks and red rimmed eyes.

No one asks her anything and the whole group is quiet when Lance finally returns some time after Gwen.

*

Arthur makes a point of not asking what happened between Gwen and Lance at the party and is quietly proud of himself for showing some restraint. Elena probes him to see if he knows anything and only pouts when he assures her otherwise. Merlin goes a bit pale whenever she brings it up while he’s in hearing range. For three days after the party, Arthur wishes he _did_ know just to put the whole thing to rest. Besides, it wasn’t particularly healthy to obsess over a fight between your previous bone-aching crush and her boyfriend; even if it isn’t exactly _him_ who is obsessing.

Still, when Morgana invites herself around the next afternoon while Merlin’s at work and Elena’s out with her friends and tells him, Arthur’s not particularly pleased with the outcome.

“What are you doing here?” he asks when he opens the door and Morgana immediately brushes past him.

“I had to get out. It’s driving me mad,” she says with the flair for the dramatic he’s only ever known his sister can pull off every time.  
“What is?” he asks and that makes her stop dead.

“You don’t know, do you?” she asks, her gaze narrowed and Arthur shrugs, feeling lost.  
“Know what?”

“About Gwen and Lance?”

“That fight, at the party?” he asks, heading back to the couch with Morgana on his tail.

“You do know they broke up, don’t you, Arthur?”

Oh.

He stops then and turns to face her.

“They what?”

“So you didn’t know?”

“Of course I didn’t know. Gwen and Lance didn’t say anything!”

  
“Didn’t Merlin?”

“What, Merlin knew?”

“Oh, Arthur, no wonder you’ve been more thick than usual,” Morgana sighs and slops down onto the cushion beside him.

“Lance’s application to transfer and finish his degree here has been rejected. Apparently it’s part of the contract he signed as part of the exchange, it only lasts for the semester. He’d have to drop out and apply for a full position here at Cam-U and they can’t guarantee him a position. He has to go back to Spain.”

“So he broke up with Gwen?”

“He has at least a full year to go, Arthur. He didn’t want her to wait. I love her, I do, but there’s only so much moping I can handle. You know he keeps calling the house phone and leaving these stupid apologetic messages. It’d be sweet if he didn’t call more than once a day. It’s driving me insane.”

Arthur doesn’t quite know how to process that information, or rather, what that information means to him now that he knows it. Elena pouts and despairs on Gwen’s behalf when he tells her about it later and all it does is increase his own confusion. Merlin spends an awful amount of time at Gwen’s, and Gwen starts to spend a considerable amount of time at his and Merlin’s flat again, curling up on the couch with Merlin, the pair of them controlling the television for their own trashy Hollywood purposes. Arthur doesn’t ask or interfere, which seems to have been the best course of action when a week or so after he found Morgana on his doorstep complaining about Lance’s continual apologies, Merlin corners him in the kitchen and invites he and Elena to Lance’s farewell party down at the pub.

He doesn’t question it, in fact, he’s sort of glad that they haven’t ostracised the man, because despite his ability to date Arthur’s crush before he can, Lancelot is actually a good man and Arthur can’t hold it against him. He’s considerate and easy to get along with and he actually finds himself rather desolate at the idea that the other man will no longer be a continual part of their day-to-day lives. At least for a year. Merlin makes him promise to return and Arthur makes a point of not looking at Gwen when Lance answers. Still, a part of him hopes that if he does they can sort things out. She’s been happy, and despite his petulance that he’s not the one doing it, he can’t begrudge her that happiness.

Even so, there is distinct gap in the group following their last night in the pub. Lance had made sure not to drag things out, and it’s a reasonable excuse that he needs to return and get settled once again before he goes back to study, but it’s still an excuse in itself. The first few times they all go out they book their table for their usual six instead of five and eventually Arthur makes a point of dragging Leon around as a sort of not-replacement replacement. He fills the gap in their booth at the pub, on the couch and in most conversations, so Arthur doesn’t feel bad about it in the slightest after the first time. After all, he’d sort of felt an absence not seeing him around since uni finished up. They haven’t been close friends for a while, but finishing university seems to put things into a perspective Arthur hadn’t exactly anticipated and he’d always liked Leon more than Owaine and Bedivere. The other two had sort of drifted straight back to that ill-formed arrogance Arthur likes to think Morgana and Gwen beat out of him during first year.

Still, despite Leon’s presence, which no one seems to dispute, thankfully, the group is still uncomfortable without Lance. Thankfully Morgana skilfully takes up the challenge of distracting Gwen, which, for the first few weeks involves dragging her and Merlin out to bar after bar, of which Arthur carefully avoids after the first time Gwen and Morgana disappeared and he was left to watch Merlin flirt outrageously with a blond guy with creepy burns down one side of his face for half the night, before disappearing for an hour. The second time he stays at home, which is almost as bad because then he has to bear witness to Merlin tripping over himself, dragging a roguish brunette behind him, the pair of them more handsy than Arthur had really been comfortable with, at home with his girlfriend. Both Merlin and Elena had found it delightfully funny, but Arthur had been traumatised by the muffled sounds coming from Merlin’s room after that and so he has very little pity in the beginning when the bars seem to do little good.

After that Morgana turns completely towards Merlin and the upcoming party for DestinCity. Even beyond the disgust at having to listen to Merlin being fucked into the sheets, as Morgana would so elegantly put it, Arthur would have been a little terrified on Merlin’s behalf if he didn’t find it endlessly hilarious watching Morgana and Gwen corner him and drag him out of the flat on a number of occasions. Beginning with a haircut (Merlin’s expression had been absolutely hilarious), followed by a manicure – _“You know I’m not a doll, right? Right?”_ – completed with _a new suit_ , which, for some reason, seems to cause Merlin the most grief. Or perhaps he’s just become accustomed to the torture by the time they get to that and knows what to expect if his look of pleading terror had been anything to go by.

Still, it seems to get the desired effect, because when they all come stalking back up the stairs three days before the ceremony with a suit bag in Morgana’s arms (because Merlin can’t be trusted) and Gwen laden down with designer bags and a delighted smile on her face, Merlin is pouting and sulking. It only gets worse when Morgana hands him back the bag and tells him to go and put it on.

“I’m not a doll!” he reiterates.

“Of course you’re not, darling, now put it on.”

Merlin snarls and stalks off to his bedroom, slamming the door, but Morgana looks pleased.

“William Westmancott really does an excellent job, Arthur. I highly recommend him.”

That makes Arthur laugh and it perhaps explains Merlin’s continued distress over the last week.

“Only you would hire out a tailor from _Savile Row_ , Morgana,” he snorts. “You do know this isn’t Merlin meeting the Queen or anything?”

“Come now, Arthur. He’s graduated now, he needs a suit that he can wear and this is one he definitely can.”

“He really does look quite lovely in it, Arthur,” Gwen pipes up, wearing a hesitant smile and Arthur’s stomach does an involuntary back flip.

Traitor.

“I’m sure he looks like a right princess,” he scoffs, Morgana glares at him and Gwen starts to look a little downtrodden and he feels bad for it, he does, but it’s their own fault for putting Merlin in something that displays everything the bastard has to offer. And that’s considering Merlin’s love for skinny jeans and t-shirts that are worn through and cling unseemly when it rains.

Besides, the fool is still entirely Merlin when he steps out of the bedroom with the collar open and his feet sticking out of the bottom of his trousers because he took his shoes off (Morgana no doubt has a new pair hidden somewhere in the many bags around the door). He looks awkward and unsure, yanking at the cuffs of his shirt and shifting in the jacket.  
“I told you I couldn’t wear something like this, Morgana!” he protests. Arthur snorts and tries to stop himself staring. It’s strange, seeing how Merlin could fit into the upper class world. Dressed as he is, Merlin could trip over his feet and spill wine down Uther’s shirt and just get a glare, if he did it in his ratty jeans and a shirt, Uther would probably make sure Merlin never worked again, regardless of whether he would be meeting Arthur’s father working as a waiter or as Arthur’s friend.

“Come off it, Merlin, you look fabulous. William made sure of it.”

“Well, I feel like a peacock.”

“You’re not showing off near enough arse for peacock territory, darling. It’s fine.”

“Humph,” Merlin pouts and Arthur _has_ to laugh at him because he just looks so petulant there’s nothing else for it. The idiot is wearing a suit that probably cost Morgana more than all the ten finalist paintings in the art prize combined and he’s whinging about it.

“I’m not wearing it,” he declares and Morgana just rolls her eyes as Merlin stalks into his bedroom and closes the door rather firmly behind him. Gwen bites her lip and follows a few moments later, leaving Arthur and Morgana alone in the lounge.

“Why on earth did you take him to William Westmancott for?” he asks pointedly and Morgana makes a sound like a cat.

“Because he deserves to look like everyone in that room should be licking the dirt off the soles of his shoes.”

“And this has nothing to do with having your own real life mannequin to abuse as you see fit?”

“I’m not an actual harpy, Arthur. Besides, Merlin actually enjoyed himself the last few days; he’s just not going to admit it anywhere near _you_.”

“I’m sure Merlin has plenty of gay points without needing a manicure, Morgana,” he snarks, rolling his eyes. Morgana glares.

“You really have no idea how much he cares about what you think of him, do you?” she asks and he feels like this is a question worth more weight than he gives it time for. It’s also a question he probably should have answered truthfully, not that he’s ever been one to show Morgana his weaknesses, and the feeling of glee at her announcement is a weakness indeed. One he doesn’t really want to put too much attention to. Nonetheless, it’s sort of flattering to think that Merlin actually appreciates his opinion.

Which, he has to admit, has nothing to do with how disappointed he is that he can’t convince Merlin to leave the house for the showing. Or how it’s _Morgana_ who chases the idiot out of the house in the end. Which is still a mean feat, even for Morgana, because Merlin had gone into sheer panic mode almost from the moment he’d woken up and realised what day it was. Arthur had to chase him away from the booze more than once, even though a part of Arthur wanted to cave in and give him the bottle of gin he’d been eyeing. There could have been so much potential story material to come out of taking a pissed Merlin to an art showing, to his _own_ art showing, but he’s rather fond of his balls. Which he knows he’ll lose if Merlin arrives anything short of perfectly on time.

Which says something about Morgana’s expectations because Arthur hadn’t been able to get Merlin to do anything all day by the time they should be ready to get going. Merlin had gone green every time Arthur had tried to make him eat anything and he spent an awful amount of time in the bathroom to the point where Arthur was sort of scared he was trying to off himself. When he busted down the door, Merlin was curled up in the bathtub looking morosely at the half cracked window.

“I forgot we were on the second floor,” was all he murmured and that alone is enough to give Arthur joke material for years to come.

Still, it doesn’t mean that he gets Merlin out of the bathroom. No, that actually takes Morgana and her six-inch heels and sequinned mini dress, half an hour before the showing starts and all the artists are supposed to arrive.

The Pendragon’s are known for their arrogance, their dignity and steel-eyed glares. Merlin is a mule and none of these apply in the twenty minutes it takes to get him out the door. Uther’s glare is nothing on Morgana’s in the slightest as they sit in the back of the taxi, Gwen sitting backwards and Merlin slumped between Arthur and Morgana to stop him lunging for the doors. It’s almost amusing, his sudden sense for the melodramatic, if there wasn’t an actual undercurrent of desperation in the idiot’s expression. Arthur’s almost tempted to run a bet whether or not he faints, but stops himself because the last thing he wants to do is upset Morgana. The fact Merlin is out of the house and in the taxi wearing shoes is their day’s miracle; getting Merlin in the stupidly expensive tailored suit was just beyond them. He’s wearing worn grey jeans and a comfortable cardigan and he’s swathed in a muted blue neckerchief. He looks like an artist, yes, but they’re comfort clothes and nothing on the style that Morgana had been hoping for.

The girls look excellent, though. Elena is out of town so it’s just Gwen and Morgana, but Morgana is no doubt going on the prowl and possibly to use her womanly wiles to get Merlin’s name in the press, regardless of winning or not. Gwen looks sweet, wrapped in yellow chiffon and pink accents, her hair pulled back and curling over one shoulder, her other shoulder bare. Arthur has to suppress the desire to kiss it.

Not helping. Or right. Or – just, no. Just _no_. For the first time he wishes desperately that Elena had been able to come and hadn’t been at her father’s house in Caerleon.

*

The gallery is surprisingly bigger than Arthur thought it would be. It’s not the Camelot Metropolitan Museum of Fine Art, but the Avalon Art Museum is impressive enough on its own. It’s all white marble floors and high white ceilings and Merlin is almost as pale as the décor as they drag him through the entrance, pausing only to tick his name, along with theirs, off the guest list. Merlin’s eyes are wide and he looks a little bit ill, like he’s about to bolt as they manhandle him across the room where there’s a group of similar terrified looking people interspersed with a few irrepressible arrogant snobs that Arthur immediately takes offence to.

By the look on Morgana’s face, she feels similar as she tugs Merlin around to face her and hugs him, whispering something in his ear that makes him blush. Gwen is next and then Merlin turns to him. They just nod and that’s enough, even though Morgana huffs and rolls her eyes.

Merlin swallows and then stumbles off to the group and once again Arthur’s struck with his half-warning about Merlin tripping over his own feet and ruining something that’s worth more than his car. He wouldn’t put it past him. He brought his check book just in case.

Still, there’s more to this night than just supporting Merlin, it’s about loyalty and sussing out the competition as the growing audience congeals around several works. There are ten finalists, but additionally there’s also a collection of the better works from the last few rounds of judging. The far wall is for the finalists though and there’s a delightful amount of people surrounding Merlin’s painting when Morgana and Gwen drag him over. It’s clearly the best, and Arthur’s not being biased in the slightest. He’s not. Okay, so maybe he is a bit, but when he nods at Merlin’s work, Gwen sort of gasps and starts grinning and blushing. Arthur hadn’t realised that the two girls hadn’t seen it. Not that he’d seen it much himself, bar that first preliminary drawing in charcoal on the canvas and then that night after he got back from dealing with Vivian. It’s still awesome in the detail and placement of the strokes. The shifts between monochrome and colour are perfect and the tonal shifts are the work of a master. And that’s not just Arthur’s opinion, which he’s sort of disappointed he didn’t record on his phone to show Merlin when he stopped eavesdropping. Hearing that out of the mouth of someone who matters in the art world might be enough to kill Merlin, so it might be best that he didn’t.

Still, while Merlin’s is amazing, the other nine paintings aren’t far short. There’s an eerily realistic painting of a pagan ritual site by a woman named Nimueh that he matches up fairly quickly to one of the arrogant gits who had sized them all up as they’d dragged Merlin over. There’s a couple of abstracts that don’t particularly strike his fancy, and a portrait he can’t look at because the damn thing has a wonky eye that clearly everyone’s missing when they go on about how real it looks.

Outside of the joy of hearing people talk about Merlin’s painting and watching all the young men stare at Morgana when she walks past them, the whole night is stupidly reminiscent of his father’s benefits, and it’s only when Merlin’s suddenly released from his hold in the corner that things become interesting again.

“They’ve had us talking to benefactors over there for twenty minutes. I swear I can smell the money on them, Arthur. Like they have pound signs in their eyes. I feel like I’m wearing twenty-quid notes instead of clothes or something,” he gasps, stealing Arthur’s flute of champagne and downing the last of it in one desperate swallow.

Arthur’s not sure whether to laugh or not, so he settles for finding them both another drink and seeing what happens from there. Merlin accepts the drink with a terrified grin and it follows the first a lot quicker than Arthur’s does. He throws Merlin a raised eyebrow and the idiot’s cheeks colour.

“I’d stop if you want to leave still wearing your trousers, Emrys,” he warns and Merlin goes completely red then, right to the tips of his ears and he hides under his fringe for a moment, because it’s an actual possibility if he even breathes in any more champagne. Booze and bubbles, always a dangerous mix, especially when the fool hasn’t eaten all day.  
“They’re going to announce the winner at nine, if we stay half an hour afterwards then go, they won’t care,” Merlin says, turning on the spot to locate the girls in the crowd while Arthur checks his watch.

There’s still an hour or so until the announcement, which sort of makes him want to track down another waiter and steal their entire tray of champagne, Merlin or no Merlin. He pins back the desire and lets Merlin prattle on about each of the other works instead, pointing to each one in turn and then telling him about the artists, standing on the tips of his toes like a child until he locates them in the crowd. The act of pointing out nine other people in the crowd is made surprisingly difficult by the number of people who stop Merlin in his talking to talk _at_ him about his painting, which is sort of brilliant, because it makes Merlin’s ears go red and it makes him prattle like the idiot he is. It’s all rather charming, really. Comfortingly Merlin. But as they dismiss yet another elderly couple who seem to be wearing most of their wealth, it’s clear that Merlin’s nerves have made a comeback of generous proportions, which takes a moment for Arthur to recognise.

Merlin’s occasional glancing at something behind Arthur’s head in short intervals like a nervous tick starts making Arthur nervous until he actually looks himself. Arthur follows his gaze after a moment and it all clicks when he sees a greying man in a delightfully horrid pinstripe suit talking to someone at the edge of the podium. They can’t be far off now; he glances at his watch, only ten to nine. He’s smiling as he takes his turn searching the crowd, this time for Gwen and Morgana while Merlin just follows him, looking a bit green.  
Morgana must have her sixth sense turned on because she finds them before Arthur can find her, Gwen following dutifully behind.

“You need to go and line up with the others, Merlin,” she says with a smile, petting him on the shoulder and Merlin audibly gulps and nods before weaving off towards the podium like he’d rather be doing something else entirely. Like walking towards his own execution. _Honestly_.

“So, does he have it?” Arthur asks out of the corner of his mouth as they watch the old man take Merlin by the shoulders and put him third in line closest to the podium. Morgana just watches, but Arthur knows her. If she knew when Merlin had to go up to the podium then she’s been talking to the curator, and if she’s been talking to the curator, then she probably already knows who’s won.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says with a soft smile and that’s enough for Arthur. He can’t get the smile off his face then, because _he knew it. He knew the idiot had it in him._

It’s all worth the look of utter surprise on Merlin’s face when they finally get around to reading out the winner. He looks like someone’s slapped him across the face and then he starts grinning as the other nine start shaking his hand, even sour faced Nimueh, which Arthur takes a great deal of pleasure watching. There’s nothing that could possibly top the gleeful, confused bumbling speech Merlin tries to utter as he’s pushed up to the microphone and Arthur stops himself from yelling out something juvenile, even though a small part of him thinks it might actually _help_ as Merlin just _grins_ and laughs and then _grins some more_. He’s a delight and he’s buzzing when he steps down.  
They weave over to engulf him in a hug, none of them particularly keen on waiting their turn and from the laughter echoing from the centre, Merlin’s fairly happy with it as well because the moment they all break away, he’s engulfed by a swarm of well wishes from fellow artists and curators and agents and buyers alike. Merlin just nods, smiles and thanks them, and clearly wishes he could curl up in a ball in a corner somewhere to take it all in. Morgana and Gwen wander off to perch near Merlin’s painting and wait it all out, which is smart because Merlin gets dragged over for photographs for the paper and the collection and Arthur just watches from the wings, stealing champagne off the waiters as they go past.

It’s all delightfully busy and while not much particularly happens to him beyond a doddery old woman asking him about Merlin, because she saw they were friends, Arthur’s left well enough alone, which is nice.

He can tell Merlin’s wishing for something similar the longer the melee goes on and so he makes a dash for the idiot as soon as there’s a gap and drags him away. Merlin looks flushed and grateful as he drags him out of the main hall and into the alcove that’s the reception area during business hours.

“Shit, that’s _crazy_ ,” he breathes as he leans back against the wall, grinning like a lunatic.

“Tell me about it,” Arthur smirks.

Merlin just exhales, emptying his chest of everything in him, his eyes closed. When he opens them and stands up straight again he’s more collected, but it doesn’t last long at all.  
“I can’t believe I won,” he laughs, stumbling across the room to lean on the reception desk instead, eyeing Arthur.

“Well, it is the best painting here, Merlin,” he quips and Merlin laughs again.

“Piss off it is, seriously. Technique wise, there were _so_ many better works in there. Seriously. This is insane.”

“It’s not as insane as you think,” he teases. “What are you going to spend your prize money on then, Mr. Artiste?”

Merlin groans, still grinning.

“I don’t know. I might get a house plant. And new paints.”

“You should buy yourself something useful, like a new car.”

“I like my car. I’ll have to think of something. Something good. An electronic scooter.”

“You’d kill yourself, idiot. Don’t buy an electronic scooter. And don’t let Morgana con you into anything.”

“Come off it.”

“You’re going to pay for not wearing her suit, you know,” Arthur grins. “I won’t be surprised if she kidnaps all your stupid scarves and you never see them again,” he continues, stepping forward to yank at the wrap of material around Merlin’s neck. Merlin pouts and toys with one of the frayed edges.

“She wouldn’t,” he says, scandalised.

“She would and you know it,” he laughs, only he hasn’t stepped away from Merlin and he’s suddenly aware of how close they are. They’re half a step away, he can see Merlin’s eyelashes pressed against his cheek as he looks down, frowning at his clothes, he can feel the displacement of the air as he breathes.

“She would, wouldn’t she? Can we change the locks?” Merlin asks, glancing up at him through his eyelashes.

“She’s probably got the locksmith on speed dial. Or to be perfectly honest, she probably knows how to pick locks anyway.”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, swallowing and Arthur watches the bob of his adam’s apple. Neither of them speak for a moment, he can feel Merlin’s eyes pouring into him and he just continues to stare, enraptured and mute. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, why he’s so close; he can feel the heat, nerves and excitement buzzing off Merlin. He’s like a flame and Arthur feels like a stupid bug all of a sudden.

He doesn’t know quite what makes him do it. It’s more an absence of thought than a conscious move, but either way it ends up with the same result. Merlin’s hair is soft through his fingers as he reaches up to cup the back of Merlin’s head and bring him down to meet him in a kiss. His lips are pliant against Arthur’s own, but they’re as soft as any girl’s. It’s his jaw that’s rough as Arthur moves his other hand up to hold Merlin in place. By then Merlin’s kissing back, and all of Arthur’s thoughts run wildly out of his brain. He’s too taken with the battle the kiss becomes.

Merlin is no girl; he’s hard muscle as he put his hands in Arthur’s hair, pressing his own body tight against Arthur’s own. He kisses back, nipping at Arthur’s bottom lip and sliding his tongue in tandem. It’s not awkward; it’s just a kiss, a duelling kiss that’s just the start. It’s good, _really good_ and he groans in appreciation, crowing inside at the tiny gasp he pulls from the other man as they walk backwards, neither one of them paying much attention to what they’re doing or where they’re going, just sort of desperately pulling at each other as they fight for skin on skin. Arthur’s caught, his brain is buzzing and it feels like his blood is singing. He’s never really kissed like this. Merlin’s a fight and he’s _brilliant_.

Merlin gasps again when suddenly they hit the desk and his body spasms under Arthur’s, bucking up into Arthur’s touch. He moans and the sound makes something spike in Arthur, something deep and primal and it makes him stop. It rises up in him like a wave, and for a moment he feels like he’s drowning.

He’s kissing Merlin.

He’s kissing _Merlin_. His best friend: bumbling, gorgeous, idiotic Merlin.

That’s when it stops. He takes a step back and Merlin opens his eyes and they’re dark and hazy, slightly out of focus. His lips are red and kiss-swollen. He’s dishevelled and beautiful and something Arthur’s never wanted in his life and it’s terrifying in how much he wants it now. It’s a deep almost primitive sort of desire that he can’t understand.  
He takes another step back. Merlin’s breathing hard and Arthur can feel his own heart trying to break through his chest. His hands feel clammy. What the hell is he doing?  
“Arthur?”

It’s Merlin who breaks the quiet. It’s always Merlin.

Arthur jumps and stares and he watches as Merlin stands straight and closes his mouth. He’s trying to collect himself. He knows.  
He _knows_.

Arthur can’t say anything, he _can’t_ and Merlin doesn’t ask it of him. He just nods to himself and he hangs his head for a moment, hiding under his fringe the way he does and there’s nothing for a beat. Then he looks up and he’s quiet, he’s breathing slow and he looks collected in a way that Arthur can’t even contemplate now. He feels like he’s smashed apart and scattered over the floor for everyone to stare at his entrails.

Merlin just looks him in the eye for a moment and when Arthur’s the one to look away, he misses Merlin walking out the door and back into the main hall.  
When he finally manages to leave the room, Merlin’s already gone, disappeared into the crowd.

He’s not surprised.

He’s not particularly proud of himself when he slips away.

But it doesn’t stop him; he knows he’s the one in the wrong.

For the rest of the night he can’t quite push the sound of Merlin’s voice echoing in his head, something his friend said a long time ago. Right after they first met.  
 _I know so many people have these gay flings at Uni and never think on it again, but this is me and when people realise that, well, sometimes they don’t like it. My mate Will…we fooled around. He told me he’d punch me if I ever mentioned it. It’s almost funny how that hurt more than when I actually got my head kicked in…_  
It’s not something Arthur knows he can fix. Not with beer or crisps or DVDs or Chinese take-out.

He doesn’t know how to fix it.

So he doesn’t say anything.

And he feels like an arsehole. A cheating, lowly arsehole.

*

Merlin avoids him for nearly a week and a half afterwards, and he tries to pretend he’s not at all hurt by it. Even though he knows he’s in the wrong, he doesn’t quite go the extra mile to track him down either. He doesn’t know if anyone else knows anything, so he, in turn, carefully avoids Morgana, because she’s the most likely to realise something’s happened without actually being told anything.

He’s right in his judgement because all it takes is three days of Merlin avoiding him for her to barge into his room while he’s getting ready and scowl at him.

“You kissed Merlin, didn’t you?” she accuses, eyes narrowed and Arthur scowls in return and says, “I did not,” firmly, feeling like a dick. Morgana hits him.

“You know for Merlin’s sake I’d hoped you’d have proved me wrong,” she snaps simply and then she’s gone, as furious as she’d come, leaving him feeling hollow and unnerved. Not that it puts him off avoiding her. Or Merlin avoiding him.

No, it’s down to Gwen, organising a night at the pub to force them all together a week later that Arthur sees his flat mate again properly. Gwen doesn’t look at him like he’s a cheating bastard, so he’s pretty sure that Merlin and Morgana haven’t told her about what happened at the showing, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t cottoned on that something isn’t quite right. It’s nice of her, really; he can see the faint hope in her eyes to soothe their differences as she herds them into the pub. But all it does is wind up wedging him between Merlin and the wall.

The night is nowhere as bad as he had been dreading, and serves to make his desperation at finding any excuse not to come (including driving up to see Elena instead, which even he finds a little distasteful) a little foolish. While Morgana fixes him with a couple of harsh glares, she doesn’t lay everything out on the table for them all to dissect, which is a nice change against the scenario’s Arthur had been playing out. The worst part of the evening is that Merlin’s moved beyond the forced civility that’s been in his tone every time they’ve awkwardly bumped into each other in the flat. Arthur’s not terribly sure that Merlin’s forgiven him at all, but he puts on a good show of it for Gwen and Leon. He spends the night smiling and laughing along with the rest of them. The difference between tonight and a normal night, however, is that Merlin doesn’t lean into him the way he usually does. He doesn’t spend half the night pestering Arthur and only Arthur. Instead he shares his attention around the group. It’s more than he was expecting and enough to tell him, in no certain words, that things will be okay.

But there’s still a sharp longing in Arthur’s chest because he still feels alienated and alone. Elena’s prolonged stay with her Father up north over the summer break before she goes back to uni has left an empty space in Arthur’s life that in no way justifies what he did to Merlin, but it still leaves him unsettled. Especially now that he’s in a mess and completely in the wrong, leaving Morgana ignoring him to make a point, Merlin genuinely upset and Gwen completely unaware of the scope of the situation. Leon’s a noble fool, always has been and really, while Leon has no issues with Merlin being gay, Arthur’s not sure that he could admit to his old friend that he had snogged another man, let alone Merlin, six months into a relationship with Elena. Arthur knows deep down if he came out to Leon there would be nothing to hold against him, but the truth of the matter still lies in the fact that he _has no idea why he kissed Merlin anyway._

It’s not a sudden groundbreaking revelation in his sexuality, because there’s still a girl at the coffee place near his house he’d be more than willing to shag if he ever had the chance, he still finds Gwen beautiful and gentle and a little stupidly desperate to know what she tastes like. Hell, he still feels this swirl of emotion for Elena he doesn’t want to let go of. Merlin is just... Merlin: irritating and guileless and hilarious – not shaggable. He can still say that he loves Elena; he’s just done something stupid for a reason he can’t pin down and that’s really what’s getting to him most of all. He misses his girlfriend, misses her brash no-nonsense attitude and while having her there to help him work though this would have made everything a whole lot worse, a part of him knows that whatever it was they had isn’t quite as good as it was. Or could have been. Elena’s been away three weeks already and while they’ve been texting and calling, there’s a barrier that just feels like it’s growing, and that it’s been growing while Arthur wasn’t looking for a while. Even before he kissed Merlin and pushed his side of the fence back a few steps without meaning to. What’s worse is that it’s clear that Elena’s known it’s been happening too.

It’s all there in her expression when they meet up nearly a fortnight after Merlin’s bloody party and Arthur’s mistake. They haven’t seen each other in nearly a month and there’s this look on her face that says it’s over long before she opens her mouth.

“We can’t get this right, can we?” he croaks and at that, she laughs. It’s still sweet, there’s no bitterness; she’s not holding this against him, which is a relief. He’s still not sure if she knows, if she’s like Morgana and can just see what he’s done written all over his face. Or over Merlin’s. Or even if she can, if it matters.

“We can, just not with each other, I think,” she says. “You’re a dear friend, Arthur, and a good man, but I simply don’t know how to love you the way I should. And you don’t love me. It will do neither of us any good to keep trying.”

He exhales and looks down at her hands. Her beautiful, slim fingers with calluses from riding too much. She’s wringing them together and he reaches out one hand to hold them still.

He cracks a returning smile then, because it’s just enough to be true. Still, he’s missing the freedom not seeing her every other day is supposed to bring; instead, he’s already missing the freedom seeing her has brought him. Perhaps the joy is just for her, and if it is, then that’s enough. It’s strange to find himself missing her and she’s not even gone yet.  
“I suppose. You’re a much better woman than I deserve, Elena,” he says and she snorts.

“Enough poppycock, Pendragon. We simply aren’t a match, put your chivalry and self-deprecation away and buy your ex a drink. It’s summer break and I’ve nowhere to be in the morning.”

“If that’s the type of drink you want we’re in the wrong place, I think you’ll find,” he smiles, looking around the café. It’s quiet and full of couples sharing fucking lattes and he’s suddenly agreeing with Elena; he needs a drink.

“Then find me the right type of place, then!” she smiles and his insides stop roiling. He knows it’s going to be all right once he sees that smile, because nothing’s changed about her. She’s special and he’s not willing to make the same mistakes he did when they were much younger and not see her again for years.

*


	4. Part Four

*

** Part Four **

**  
***

**_All love shifts and changes. I don't know if you can be wholeheartedly in love all the time._  
Julie Andrews**

*

Everything gets messy after that. Once he tells everyone that he and Elena have broken up, Merlin doesn’t necessarily _avoid_ him, certainly not like before, but he makes a point of never getting too close. He’s always just beyond Arthur’s reach and there’s always the tiniest strain in his smiles.

It’s not something that Arthur knows he can get around. Merlin seems to have taken it to heart. The idiot’s reaction keeps bugging him and Arthur gets half annoyed that Merlin’s taking it all too seriously. But then he remembers pushing Merlin up against the wall, his tongue in his mouth and his hands in Merlin’s hair and on his hips and he has to push that resentment aside and keep going. Maybe Merlin has the right idea. It was wrong of him to do, he’d no intention of doing anything like it before and he has no intention of doing it again. It wasn’t fair on Merlin in the slightest and he feels like a cock but he’s still annoyed that somehow they’ve fucked their friendship up, because as much as he misses Elena, he sort of misses Merlin more. He misses wrestling the idiot on the couch for the remote because Merlin has appalling taste in television. He misses the annoyed sigh when he’d steal Merlin’s fresh buttered toast right from under the knife, and he misses the scheming glint in Merlin’s eye when his blasted brain corrupted something strange and just needs to share.

Arthur doesn’t know who Merlin’s bloody well sharing it with these days because it sure as hell isn’t him.

It’s a strange absence, really. One that only gets worse when his father calls him to dinner to announce he’s finally figured out where in the company he’s sticking Arthur. It’s a bit of a shock when he finds himself with a key to Pendragon Towers and an office cubicle in accounting, second only to Baldrick as head of the department. It’s nepotism at its finest, but its better than the near on three months of toing and froing, wondering just where in the conglomerate his father was going to put him. He’s been anticipating having to start at the bottom, and a part of him would almost have appreciated it more than this, going straight into a position of power three months out of university with the only outside experience being the reports his father had emailed to him like tests. It feels alienating walking into Pendragon Towers every day, but he seems to be the only one feeling it. Or, rather, the only one feeling it and letting it show.

His first week he spends tailing Baldrick around like a lost puppy, his suits feeling too tight one moment or too big the next, giving him the lopsided feeling of a child playing dress up’s. The accounting department fills an entire floor and keeps track of all the multiple sectors that make up PenInc. Each account is worth millions and if his father had intended on showing him the scope of his decisions, he’s picked a damn good place to start because Arthur feels the pressure almost instantly. The entire department is made up of people who have proved themselves in the separate businesses that make up his father’s conglomerate. They’ve earned their place and Arthur feels like an outsider almost instantly. Stacy, Baldrick’s personal assistant, seems nice, she smiles at him and tries to help him fit in, but even with her he feels the gap between someone who’s earned their place and himself, thrown into the mess because his father wants to make him work for his inheritance. It’s not quite as derogatory as that, he _knows_ that much, that his father wants him to understand the business the best that he can before it becomes his own, but that doesn’t mean it’s a pleasant experience.

It makes him lonely, which in turn makes him irritable and uncomfortable. Morgana is still annoyed at him for kissing Merlin and Merlin is still awkward around him. Elena’s gone, and like himself, Leon’s time has been absorbed by his father’s practice. Cameliard Advertising is owned by Pendragon Incorporated, and Arthur finds himself dealing with the figures sent over from Leon’s father, which he finds bizarre. Not that it’s something he wants to call Leon up and talk about. The last thing either of them really wants is to discuss work things in a recreational setting.

When it comes down to it, the only real thing he misses most out of it all is Merlin.

He misses the days when Merlin would just look at him and draw out anything that was wrong like sucking poison out of a snake bite. They’re not on that level of communication these days. Something that’s almost been made worse as Merlin’s suddenly in a rush to get himself a job in some way, shape, or form and between the two of them, it’s like they barely see each other for nearly a month despite the fact they’re still living in the same flat. Arthur’s awake at five thirty, out by half six so he’s in the office for eight, and Merlin’s a whirlwind at the other end of the spectrum, according to Morgana. It’s especially depressing that he has to learn exactly what it is Merlin’s doing from his sister at their fortnightly dinners with their father.

Everything falls to pieces though, when Arthur gets a text from Gwen in complete capslock about getting a job. It’s depressingly simple to get everyone together to celebrate and Arthur feels this slow burning guilt that makes him think that he’s just not making enough effort, and a mixed disappointment that he’s pretty sure that Merlin feels similarly. That they’re still not quite fixed.

But Gwen is happy and bubbling when they meet at Coloured Glass for dinner, and her excitement is infectious enough that the monotony of his new working life suddenly breaks. It’s a little disarming to realise that dinner and drinks with his friends is suddenly all that’s enough to make him happy.

And even better, one too many drinks is enough to break the tension between himself and Merlin, much like how he likes to blame booze for the kiss. It’s a circular story Arthur doesn’t miss, but he’s too wrapped up in the feel of Merlin’s arm brushing his, his fingers on his wrist every time Merlin reaches for his cutlery and the way Merlin’s smiling and talking.

“I’ve had a few commissions,” Merlin tells them as they’re all tucking into their mains. He’s had two glasses of wine and his cheeks are flushed already and Arthur had almost forgotten the joy of watching Merlin make a complete nuisance of himself on next to nothing.

“Nothing much. And I’ve got a few acrylics up at a café in Camelot Maine and two of them sold. It’s not much, but it’s something. Gaius keeps giving me the card of this bloke below the Peak who bought my entry into DestinCity, but I keep chickening out of calling him.”

“Don’t,” Leon says around a mouthful of chicken as he reaches for his beer.

“Oh, Merlin, you really should!” Gwen splutters right after and Merlin’s ears go red again.

“It just feels like cheating.”

“My god you would never make a good businessman,” Arthur groans, realising a moment later he probably should have kept his mouth shut as Merlin frowns, but by then it was too late and he was in for a penny, in for a pound. “You’d destroy your company almost immediately. Merlin, if you want to make it anywhere you’re going to have to sell yourself, otherwise you’re just going to wind up selling paint for the rest of your life.”

“What makes that a bad thing?”

“Because, darling, you’re talented,” Morgana adds, arching an eyebrow as Merlin looks sceptical.

“Stop pulling faces, you idiot, you are. It’s the last time I’m probably ever going to say this, but you’re good. Really good. So stop second guessing and call this bloke who bought your painting.”

Merlin’s hiding under his fringe like the idiot he is then, so Arthur just goes back to his steak for a moment, feeling the disconcerting stares of both Leon and Morgana before turning his attentions back on Gwen. They’re a little disparaging, those two.

“So, tell us more about this new job of yours,” he asks and the distraction works. Then it’s Gwen’s turn to blush and look flustered. It’s a strange form of familiarity when Arthur feels stupidly pleased with himself, making her smile like that.

“Oh! Well it’s for this nice gallery in East Camelot and it’s lovely. I’m one of the buyer’s assistants, but she says if I work hard she’ll promote me before the year is out into a junior position for one of the smaller exhibit rooms.”

“See, Merlin, Gwen is selling herself and look where she’s got. Maybe if you’re still scared of yourself in 12 months she can take pity on you and give you an exhibit.”

That might have been a bad thing to say, because Merlin looks a little hurt, which he tries to cover up by asking Gwen who the buyers are at the gallery. But Arthur can feel Morgana’s disapproving glare on him when she’s not talking with the others. He can’t feel Leon’s, but then again, Morgana’s stare is like a solar flare.

Still, being an arse gets a result, because when Arthur gets back from work on Monday, Merlin is sitting on the couch with his arms wrapped around himself, staring at the phone.  
“You okay?” Arthur asks and feels a spike of concern when Merlin jumps like he hasn’t realised Arthur was there despite the noise he made coming through the door and taking off his shoes.

“Huh?” Merlin asks dumbly, gaze a little blank and for a moment Arthur’s sure he’s heard bad news. Earth shattering bad news.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, making sure to make his voice as light as possible. Without disdain or irritation, despite how shite a day he’s had dealing with his father and Baldrick and everything else.

“Oh. I, er, I called that guy. From DestinCity. He, uh, he’s an agent and he wants to sign me. He says he could get me into Camelot Met in two years. Went on about destiny and shit.” Merlin stops and draws a hasty breath, before he turns his gaze on Arthur. “I, er, I don’t know what to do, Arthur.”

He looks scared, and that’s not particularly something Arthur had sort of expected at a moment like this, not that it doesn’t sort of make sense the more he thinks about it. He crosses the room over to the couch and sits down beside Merlin. The idiot’s gone back to staring down at the phone like it’s a lifeline or the scariest thing he’s ever seen; Arthur’s not sure which.

“You really don’t get how good you are, do you?” he asks softly, it’s an old adage, but one he knows is still true, even if there is more to this.  
“No,” Merlin whispers.

“You’ve worked hard for this, Merlin. You’re amazingly talented. You make me like your stuff and I barely like anything, remember?”

He snorts quietly and Arthur realises then that he’s going to have to tackle the issue because he can’t avoid it. Merlin’s not going to perk up without sorting this out and despite Arthur’s inability to deal with his own emotions; he can’t ignore Merlin’s. The idiot wears them on his sleeve and it kills to see him upset, even for Arthur. It kills to see him _this_ upset, like this has been going on for weeks and Arthur hasn’t noticed.

“This is about your mother, isn’t it?” he asks softly, a little unsure, but Merlin turns his head so fast Arthur’s sure he’s going to get whiplash and Arthur knows he’s right.  
Merlin’s eyes are wide and glassy and his mouth’s open in shock.

“I – er, I –” Merlin stumbles.

“She’d be proud of you, you know.”

Merlin looks down again, then, and a part of Arthur whispers at him to keep talking, because maybe he really _has_ just caught on to something. Maybe he’s right; maybe this is something Merlin needs to hear. Because he hasn’t. There’s no one Arthur can think of who might say what Merlin might have heard if his mother had been alive, and if she was, Arthur might not have ever met him. They certainly wouldn’t have been living together and while he can’t count it as a fair exchange, it feels right that he’s the one to say it.

“She wanted you to go to university, Merlin. To get a degree and show the world how good you are. That’s why you were there, because she believed in you. Why is it so hard to believe that we do too? That we’re not the only ones?”

Merlin doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He closes his eyes and he swallows and it’s only then that Arthur realises Merlin’s been crying. But by then there’s no room for open panic because Merlin’s looking at him, his stupid, blue eyes wide and searching as he just looks at him.

“I know,” he croaks, nodding vigorously and then he clamps his eyes shut again for a moment and then neither of them say anything. Merlin settles back on the couch, leaning back against the cushions so he’s pressed up against Arthur and he leans his head down on Arthur’s shoulder. He’s a warm presence, his hair tickling the side of Arthur’s neck.  
“Who are you and what have you done with the real Arthur?” he whispers softly, his voice rough and slow in his throat.

Arthur snorts.

“Clobbed him over the head in Marks and Spencers. Drove his car to ASDA and gave it to a mother of three.”

“Oh? Did you get any quavers?”

“The other Arthur ate them.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Neither does your face.”

“Clotpole,” Merlin snuffles and Arthur sighs.

“Yeah, something like that. Idiot,” he replies softly and neither of them move for a while.

Or bring it up in the slightest when Merlin brings up Drake Kilgarrah to the others a few days later.

Which is nice, that there’s still something between them that’s just for them.

 

*

 

There isn’t much of a difference in Merlin’s habits after he calls Kilgarrah. He may have a degree in fine art, but the piece of paper doesn’t seem to have done anything to his conviction to the practice.

Really the only difference is he’s no longer complaining about whether or not his tutor is going to like it, instead, he more than makes up for it by whinging about how his agent isn’t going to like it. Even though the man hasn’t even seen his portfolio yet, beyond what he’d apparently filched through Gaius after DestinCity. But from there, Merlin starts complaining about techniques not working, his paint being too old, brushes sticking together. Things that Arthur doesn’t understand in the slightest.

  
Arthur, despite their reconciled friendship, starts avoiding the flat when Merlin gets in one of his moods, which somehow leads him to a lot of afternoons spent at Gwen and Morgana’s.

Morgana seems to find Merlin’s mental art snap fascinating, which simply makes Arthur think she hasn’t seen Merlin when he’s been wandering around at three a.m. with an assortment of half-sketches pinned up around the room, rearranging them and mumbling to himself. It’s sort of terrifying, actually, how far Merlin seems to descend into madness when he’s suddenly faced with other people seeing his work. After the second week running, Arthur’s almost at a point where he’s started thinking about slipping Merlin sleeping pills into his tea, which makes Morgana laugh and Gwen start biting her lip like she knows he’s serious and Morgana doesn’t.

“Are you sure he’s okay?” Gwen asks him cautiously the next time he shows up on their doorstep after work. Morgana is out on the prowl, doing whatever his sister does in order to try and get her thesis on the myths of the fae turned into a book or a television series or whatever she’s got her sights set on.

“He’s sleeping and eating much the same as he was before, only difference these days is that he’s awake half the night and asleep half the day instead,” Arthur replies, trying to calm the concern out of her expression.

“He worries too much.”

“He does. He’s anxious about this Kilgarrah bloke. He keeps saying Merlin’s got the talent to get into any museum he wants. Merlin, of course, thinks it’s all bull.”

“He still doesn’t believe in himself properly, does he?”

“He does, just – not the way everyone else thinks he does. He knows he’s good, but I don’t think he really wants to be all the time.”

That makes her bite her lip and look a little lost in thought for a moment. Arthur just watches, a little enraptured in the tiny changes of her expression. It’s odd, the way he can’t shift this infatuation with her. He’d be a liar if he ever said he had, he thinks, as she shifts on the couch and her hair sort of spills over one shoulder. He resists the urge to lean over and tuck it back behind her ear. There are reasons for the friend zone, he knows. Well, he knows and he understands them a little better now after Merlin. He’s not particularly interested in pursuing her, not so soon after Elena. Enough time has passed that Morgana has sort of been raising her eyebrows in silent question of who he’s going to move onto next and Leon’s started nudging him in the ribs at the pub and pointing out girls to him, but he’s sort of comfortable waiting it out. He doesn’t really _want_ to move on to looking for someone new.

Still, he’d be a liar if he didn’t say that he wasn’t enjoying the amount of time that he’s been spending alone with Gwen. It’s been nearly a year since he’s had any sort of one on one time with her, mostly out of his own selfishness, unable to deal with her when she’d been going out with Lance and he’d had no chance of just leaning across the table and kissing her if he could ever work up the courage to do so.

He still doesn’t have the courage now, but it’s a refreshing zest to his otherwise stress filled days, dealing with the pressure of his father’s expectations at work and his pathetic desire to please a man who he’s never really been able to satisfy. Gwen’s regard for letting him vent, watching and waiting him out without arguing is a nice change from both Merlin and Morgana, who never seem to be able to deal with keeping their mouths shut when he wants to complain. Gwen just watches and purses her lips in a somewhat amused frown, hovering on the border between the two, nine times out of ten. Unless he’s being blatantly obtuse in either direction, by which she gives into the side of her that’s clearly been influenced by the two M’s.

After a while he’s almost thankful to Merlin’s dealings with Kilgarrah and his best friend’s idiotic tendencies to over dramatize. When they all meet up at the pub for their usual Friday night, it all sort of slams home when he meets up with Gwen before and she easily walks up to him and leans in to kiss him on the cheek hello, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She doesn’t blush, she just rests her hand on his arm for a moment and his skin buzzes under her touch. Then she’s gone, leading the way into the pub. Leon is the already there, guarding their booth, his head in a book and Gwen smiles as she slides opposite him and says hello. Arthur’s still sort of fuzzy for a moment and doesn’t quite pay attention to what Gwen and Leon are talking about until he’s dragged back into clarity by the sound of Morgana and Merlin arriving, arm in arm arguing good naturedly.

“What’s got you pair all excited then?” Leon asks as Morgana shoves Merlin head first into the booth and Leon has to hold his pint up and scoot over quickly to avoid getting beer all over himself and a lap full of Merlin. Morgana and Merlin just laugh, enjoying a conversation all their own in a run of inside jokes, all conveyed through eyebrows and expressions. Still, the display is oddly disconcerting, jolting his brain out of its _ohgodshekissedme_ haze and into a startling sort of confusion that he can’t quite distinguish between _fuck off Emrys, she’s my_ sister or _Jesus, Morgana,_ Merlin? _Please don’t eat him; I_ need _him._

All the same, it’s nice to see Merlin awake and sociable and smiling like he can’t stop. It’s been a while since that’s happened. But it would be so much better if he could get past his brain’s determined realisation that his best friend might be sleeping with his _sister_ , even though Merlin is supposed to be as gay as the day is long. But that would explain all the alone time Arthur’s had with Gwen if Morgana’s been at the flat with Merlin. Which is something he _doesn’t want to think about ever._

He’s so caught up in his self-made horror that he almost misses Merlin’s blushing announcement. Not that it’s Merlin who announces it; it’s Morgana. Which he only catches because Gwen puts her hand on his thigh and jerks him back to reality much faster than anything else could. Her hand stays there.

“What?” he asks stupidly, like a knee-jerk and Morgana glares.

“I _said_ , brother dear, that Merlin’s been offered a four-piece slot into an exhibit at Avalon Gallery. He’s got four pieces he can show as part of the Young and Upcoming exhibit they run each year. It’s worth killing over to get a single piece and Merlin’s going to get a _wall_.”

Arthur just stares numbly while everyone else starts congratulating the idiot, who’s blushing like it’s going out of fashion.

“We need drinks!” Leon grins, slapping Merlin on the back.

Merlin avoids Arthur’s gaze for a moment, but then it’s like he can feel him still watching and his eyes flicker up to meet Arthur’s. Arthur nods, smiling, and Merlin’s shy smile bursts into a grin. Morgana is beaming and she grabs hold of Merlin’s arm and holds her to him in a strange groping hug. Arthur jerks his gaze away and tries to tell his brain to shut up, Arthur’s seen Merlin flirting and picking up before, often for his own amusement as much as the girls. Dammit, he’s felt the way Merlin kisses, hot and hardy and _fuck_ , if that’s the way he kisses _Morgana_ –

Oh, God, fuck offffff.

“I’m with Leon, we need drinks,” he forces a smile and turns over to Gwen, Gwen who’s looking at him with this soft expression on her face, this look that he’s never seen before when she’s looked at him, only when she’s looked at –

His expression shifts as it all clicks home.

“Come with me?” he asks, reaching down to take her by the hand. Her fingers automatically twine with his and he faintly realises his palms are a little sweaty and almost panics, but her expression doesn’t change. His brain’s buzzing as he leads her slowly over to the bar. She’s still watching him as he settles against the bench, waiting without any sort of hurry for Gilli to finish up down the other end.

“Isn’t Merlin’s news great?” she asks, biting her lip and speaking in that hurried, sort of flustered way that’s always been fucking cute. He’d forgotten she used to do that. He’s forgotten a lot, really. It’s funny how it’s all coming back now and all it takes is this, this soft look on her face and the feel of her fingers locked between his. It’s mystifying how Lance could leave this, if this is how she can make him feel with so little.

“He was always going places,” he smiles, reaching out his other hand to steady her as someone behind them bumps her and she steps forward, unbalanced a little.

“Everyone’s going somewhere. Morgana’s been saying she wants to go travelling somewhere and Lance is still in Spain and Leon’s got his father’s company and you’re at PenInc and they’ve got places all over the world. I’m just Gwen, just here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m not going anywhere either,” he says quietly, watching her as she bites her lip and creases her brow.

“I’m not going to stuff this up this time, if that’s all right with you?” he asks, feeling foolish. Still, all he can do is remember Morgana’s warning that before he simply didn’t _say_ and that’s why he’d gotten nowhere. So he says it and watches her startle and look him straight in the eyes, a little confused before smiling and leaning forward to kiss him herself. He slides his hand more firmly around her waist, bringing her closer to him and her free hand slides around the back of his neck as he kisses her back. Her lips are soft and it’s tender and tentative at first. It’s nothing like the battling desperate kiss he shared with Merlin. This is all Gwen, tender and caring and all the better for it.

Everything sort of just slows down to a snail’s pace and all he can feel is the warm press of Gwen’s lips on his, the give of her body as she leans into him. She fits, her arms looped around his head without strain or extra give, she just rises up on her toes and his hands find her waist. It’s not eager or pressing or ruthless, it’s timeless, just the feel of her lips on his, her tongue and the heat of her mouth and her skin where her t-shirt has ridden up at the back under his hand.

It’s like time’s gone funny and it takes longer to break away than it feels like, and it wasn’t long enough.

It feels like forever before they break apart and so suddenly is the sound returned to his ears it takes him a moment to realise he’d blocked it all out. She laughs nervously, not pulling away in the slightest and he just holds her and listens to his brain buzzing underneath the melee of the pub, like a computer on the fritz. It’s actually happening, _it’s actually happening_. He smiles and laughs with her and then leans down again and she moves with him, kissing him deeper, her hand in his hair and around the back of his neck. Her skin soft and smooth.

“Hi,” he says, stupidly as they break apart again, grinning like a fool down at her. She’s smiling back at him and his sluggish brain just lets him laugh, breathless and happy.

“Hi,” she says back, smiling up at him and it’s brilliant. It’s just fucking brilliant.

“Same as usual, Pendragon?” Gilli asks a moment later, dragging them both alarmingly back to reality. Arthur holds onto her and he’s pleased when she doesn’t pull away.

  
“Champagne, if you’ve got it, Gilli. We’ve got shit to celebrate tonight,” he grins.

Celebrate indeed.

 

*


	5. Part Five

*

** Part Five **

**  
***

**  
_We are not the same persons this year as last; nor are those we love. It is a happy chance if we, changing, continue to love a changed person._  
W. Somerset Maugham**

*

The next three weeks are a blur. He’s spent months of his life pining after Gwen, and in the wake of finally getting the girl; his life suddenly peaks in that odd way he thought only existed in films. The stress and expectation of his work life diminishes in the wake of Gwen, spending time with her, touching her, kissing her, having sex. It’s automatically different to every single one of Arthur’s other relationships, there’s this bursting happiness in his chest that he’s aware makes him almost unbearable.

Merlin has taken to eyeing him warily; biting his lip and telling Arthur he looks preternaturally scary with all his smiling. Morgana takes to shaking her head at him and sending him text messages calling him deranged. It all serves to fan the flames, really, to the point where he’s aware that something is going to have to change just to put him back in his place. He can’t be rich, good looking _and_ lucky in love; the world doesn’t work that well, surely.

The only thing that sets his nerves on edge, really, is the nagging thought that Merlin and Morgana are shagging in Arthur’s flat, when Arthur is shagging Gwen at her and Morgana’s. The pair of them have become uncomfortably close over the last year or so. Given their love for teasing and wreaking havoc on Arthur for pure joy, the idea that the pair of them could potentially copulate, absolutely terrifies him. It’s got nothing to do with being Morgana’s brother and those protective instincts that he’s supposed to have. Morgana’s made it clear from the age of ten that she is more than capable of handling everything the world throws at her. Her furious rage at a film producer she’d been in contact with about some television show or something is evidence enough of that. There’s one thing to have your sister interrupt a make out session on the couch, and then there’s having your sister interrupt a make out session on the couch, yelling about the bloody British film industry for fifteen minutes, hair flying, eyes bright and furious.

  
If anything, Arthur’s more worried about what Morgana would end up doing to Merlin than what Merlin cold ever do to Morgana.

So the news that he’s the last one to know about the fact that Merlin’s in love is somewhat unsettling, especially given that he’s pretty sure he already knows.

Morgana, however, likes nothing better than proving him wrong, so it’s fitting that she’s the one who tells him. He’s only told when Morgana starts ripping into Merlin in the pub nearly a month after they got kicked out of the place for being drunk and disorderly after Merlin celebrated getting his museum slots and Arthur celebrated snogging Gwen and everyone else celebrated what they wanted to celebrate. It’s only Merlin going completely red as he tries to shuffle further under the table that Arthur is told anything at all, and for a moment he stops playing footsie with Gwen under the table and is just really fucking glad that it’s put an end to weeks of horror of not knowing for certain that Merlin might be sleeping with Morgana, that it takes him a moment longer to process what his sister has just said. What’s worse is that he’s never seen Merlin like this over anyone before, as he tries to make himself smaller than his usual height and somewhat unintentionally snuggles into Arthur as he curls into himself, Arthur’s arm still around Merlin’s shoulder along the back of the booth. It makes a somewhat foreign warmth settle in Arthur’s gut and he shoots a look of confusion between Morgana and Merlin and then towards Gwen. Gwen is smiling and Merlin is still bright red.

“Come now, Merlin,” Morgana is grinning, she’s clearly realised Merlin’s weakness and Arthur almost feels sorry for him. If only he wasn’t feeling a little strange that Merlin hadn’t told him.

“When do we get to meet her?” Morgana chides and Merlin makes a funny mumbling noise that makes a bubbling laugh burst out of Arthur that he can only cover up by joining in with his sister.

“Wait, he’s not sleeping with you?” he asks and if it’s possible Merlin goes even redder while Morgana scoffs and starts laughing. He sits up though, leaning forward enough to reach his pint and knocks Arthur’s arm off his shoulders. The air is cold where Merlin’s body used to be.

“God no, Arthur!” Morgana cackles, eyeing the pair of them maniacally and on her other side Leon relaxes. “Merlin’s darling, but not my type.”

“Thank _Christ_ ,” Arthur wheezes and everyone laughs. Everyone except Merlin. Then Arthur catches on.

“Wait, if it’s not you, then – Merlin, you’re telling me you actually have a _girlfriend_?”

“What of it?” he says, finally, frowning a little before fixing his gaze directly on Morgana.

“Come now, Merlin, I did ask a question! When do we get to meet her? She’s that cute girl from Gwen’s gallery, right?”

“Her name is Freya,” he says. He’s still wearing that guarded expression on his face from before, but there’s a fondness in his voice when he keeps talking.

“We’ve only been out a few times, but she’s sweet. Amazing. I like her,” he finishes a little lamely and Gwen is the first to jump forward.

“She is very nice, Merlin,” she says, smiling and Arthur gets stuck watching her for a moment that he doesn’t realise that Morgana must have put her two cents in, because everyone is looking at Arthur, especially Merlin, whose expression is tight and expectant.

“You can bring her by the flat if you want, you know,” he says and Morgana snorts and he hears something like “pig” muttered from across the table, but he’s not really paying much attention as he brings his beer up to his lips. He watches as Merlin blushes again and mutters something about the bathroom before draining the rest of his drink and sliding down under the table to crawl out of the booth.

Arthur would have moved if he’d been asked.

It’s clearly a sensitive subject for Merlin, but given the fact that in the entirety of the time Arthur’s known him, he’s never once given any indication that he likes anyone in his bed without another cock, Arthur’s initial horror over Merlin and Morgana is the first time he’s thought of Merlin potentially expanding his wank bank. What’s weirder still is that when he’d had that first thought Merlin may have already met this Freya girl. And it’s not just Arthur who’s interested.

“Did you know Merlin had a girlfriend?” Leon asks the next day; as they’re lounging over the couch, pretending they’re going to do something other than eat bacon all day.

“Nope,” Arthur replies. He’s well aware he’s pouting, but he is also well aware that Leon would never bring it up. “Well,” he concedes after a moment. “I thought he was screwing Morgana for a while.”

Leon shifts on his side of the couch and frowns.

“Mmm, I thought he was bent,” Leon says offhand, frowning at the television. Neither of them are paying any attention to John Snow, they just find his face amusing. Arthur still can’t quite remember why.

“He is, or was. I don’t know,” Arthur groans. Merlin didn’t come back to the flat, which had been nice because it meant he and Gwen had the place to themselves, but it was still a little unnerving that Merlin was still sulking.

“Gwen said she’s an artist like Merlin. At least, not _like_ -like Merlin. He paints; apparently this Freya’s a sculptor or something. She makes animals.”

“Who’d have thought Gwen was a matchmaker,” Leon laughs and Arthur snorts. If anyone it would be Morgana, and not really out of any sense of making anyone happy, he suspects. In his sister’s hypothetical matchmaking it would probably have more to do with the fact _she_ thinks they’d look nice together, more than personalities at all.

“She must be a special girl if she got Merlin back from the rainbow side.”

“Must be,” Arthur replies, noncommittally. He doesn’t like this conversation. He doesn’t like talking about this new girlfriend of Merlin’s at all. He’s not entirely sure whether it’s because Merlin didn’t tell him that has him feeling betrayed or whether it’s because Merlin’s dating a girl altogether. Or the fact Merlin’s dating at all. Arthur groans and rubs his face. He needs to stop drinking. Or keep going. It’s Saturday so lunchtime beers are Hair of the Dog and therefore allowed. He has to meet Gwen tomorrow morning so getting pissed as a skunk is probably out of the question. The last thing he needs, on top of Merlin betraying him by going out with a girl who he seems to like enough to get into her pants, is to disappoint Gwen.

“You should ask Gwen to set you up with someone,” he says after that, just to jib Leon once again.

“Nah,” Leon murmurs and gets up for another beer.

 

*

 

Like the social moderator she is, Gwen makes sure Arthur meets Freya much earlier than he’s really ready for. Arthur wants to hate the girl, he does, but knowing Merlin, the girl’s either going to be absolutely shy as a bud or tell him he’s a tosspot in the first thirty seconds and he’s not too keen on either circumstance.  
What’s worse is that he meets her at her own damn art exhibit at the gallery Gwen works at, which immediately puts Arthur completely out of his comfort zone in every aspect. He knows nothing about art, his girlfriend is helping run the show and has to keep disappearing and his used-to-be-gay best friend is dating the artist, a slip of a girl that’s shy and hesitant and has the biggest eyes Arthur’s ever seen that seem to be constantly on Merlin.

The worst thing is, he can’t get drunk; somehow Gwen convinced him to drive her, and considering how stressed she is, he knows she rather needs the wine more than he does.  
And he needs it a lot.

Merlin spends the entire night right at his girl’s side, holding her hand and leaning down to whisper into her ear. He makes her smile and laugh and it lights up her face in a way that makes her absolutely beautiful. Still, Arthur can’t quite forgive Merlin for abandoning him all night even though he’s pretty sure Merlin had nothing to do with why he’s at the showing in the first place. He’s actually pretty sure Merlin makes a point of prolonging the time before he introduces Arthur, if the somewhat suspicious glances Merlin keeps throwing him mean anything at all.

Arthur doesn’t entirely care much beyond the point where he’s had to stand around on his own every time Gwen runs off to deal with Lorene, drinking juice and trying to forget what happened last time he was in this gallery.

There are a few people that he’s met through his father working their way through the exhibit as he does his own rounds, pausing to stare at each piece thoughtfully even though he can’t really see any social commentary hidden in them in the slightest; they’re abstract lumps of clay, animals rising up out of the moulded loops and mounds so that they’re not always viewable from a certain angle. Each of them has a certain charm, he has to say, but they’re pretty and quaint, nothing that’s going to instigate social change or show up in any of Merlin’s art textbooks. But then again, he doesn’t actually know what means what to the art world, so they might.

Still, he much prefers Merlin’s paintings.

Which he makes a point of not saying when Merlin finally decides to get around to introducing him. The girl looks a little bit ill when they finally work their way over and Arthur’s not entirely sure if it’s got anything to do with the show itself or just meeting him. Either way, he feels sort of similar, but he’s had far too much experience to let anyone see him looking green around the gills.

“You’ve finally made time for us lowly uncultured friends, have you Merlin?” he asks, sounding a little more defensive than he means to. Merlin makes a face at him and Arthur sees him reach down and squeeze Freya’s hand lightly before he opens his mouth.

“What can I say, we’ve got better things to do than deal with prats, however, now we’ve got a little time I thought we’d belittle ourselves. Freya, this prat is my ever delightful flat mate, Arthur Pendragon.”

Freya offers him a timid smile and offers him a hand to shake. Arthur plants his most charming smile on and takes her hand. She feels brittle, like a firm hold would crush all the bones in her fingers.

“Arthur, this is my girlfriend, Freya.”

“Nice to meet you,” he smiles, hoping to see something shift in the girl’s eyes other than the nervous gleam currently taking place.

“You too,” she returns, offering him a timid smile that grows a little when Merlin wraps an arm around her waist and she glances up at him.

“You have a lovely collection,” he tells her and that makes Merlin laugh.

“Arthur’s an arse and a philistine, this is him being nice,” he mocks and Arthur scowls, but it makes Freya laugh for some reason. After that something seems to shift.  
“Don’t be cruel,” she says, swatting his arm. Merlin’s grin brightens a little more.

“What? It’s the truth! He barely knows what’s going on.”

“It’s an art showing, Merlin, there’s art, you look at it, you move on,” he frowns, feeling petulant.

“See?” Merlin whispers in Freya’s ear and her whole face lights up as she smiles and giggles.

“Stop it,” she whispers and Merlin’s eyes gleam with familiar mischief. Arthur feels a sharp pang of longing. He hasn’t seen that glint in months. Growing up is balls, absolute balls.  
“What Merlin is meant to be asking, Arthur, is if you wanted to come with us?” Freya asks, her cheeks blushing a little pink. Arthur frowns.

“Come where?”

“We’re making a bid for freedom,” Merlin grins.

“I’ve been trying to stop myself from pushing one of those damn statues off the pedestal all night. I just _really_ want to see what will happen – ” Freya smiles, and there’s something about her expression that’s all Merlin and Arthur suddenly really, really quite likes her. He finds himself smiling and trying not to laugh.

“Lead the way,” he replies, only feeling a _little_ bad when they sneak out the side exit without even a word to Gwen. She is, after all, working the night and therefore the enemy. Still, he texts her fifteen minutes later when they’re running across Ascetir Park, laughing wildly, Arthur somehow finding himself carrying Freya’s shoes while she runs ahead of Merlin, barefoot, her skirt hitched up around her thighs and her hair wild and windswept.

Arthur understands quite a lot after that night. Freya is an exception of the greatest kind and he can’t hold anything against her in the slightest. Even better, she makes Merlin happy and that’s only ever something great.

 

*

 

After that the dynamics of the group sort of shift and change again, returning once again to a table of six, Merlin brings Freya along, who is quiet and unassuming quite a lot of the time, but when the pair of them get going there’s nothing that stops them. For a while Arthur’s not quite sure on what exactly Morgana thinks of Freya, she wears this expression that only serves to make him think of a lioness watching her prey, deciding exactly on how she’s going to devour it. It’s almost anti-climactic that nothing happens.  
Leon finds the ability to talk at length with the girl about growing up outside of Camelot, where apparently they both visited a single town on the outskirts of Mercia, Leon during the summer and Freya in the spring. Gwen just watches the entire group with a soft, pleased expression on her face, like she’s just happy drinking them all in, happy and content, coasting along in their own lives and blissful in each others. It’s nice, really, how settled it all gets, how easy.

Which is why Arthur sort of spends several weeks expecting something to drop on his head every time the phone rings. It doesn’t, in fact, it waits for him to go home before anything happens, and when it does it’s not exactly a bad thing, it’s certainly not the end of the world.

But it’s not particularly something Arthur’s entirely excited about.

“Don’t freak out,” Merlin says in lieu of greeting one afternoon and it makes Arthur laugh despite going immediately tense, because this is the sort of thing he’s been expecting and _of course_ it would have to come from Merlin.

“About what?” he asks, idly watching his flat mate, the account updates that he’s been studying momentarily forgotten.

“I have something to tell you,” Merlin says, setting aside his half-eaten bag of quavers and climbing up to sit on the kitchen bench. Arthur clicks his tongue in annoyance, but doesn’t say anything. By the expression on his face, Merlin is as oblivious as ever to how much he hates when the idiot gets up there.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Don’t freak out.”

“You’ve said that already.”

“I know. Sorry. It’s just, you might.”

“Might what?”

“Freak out.”

Arthur huffs.

“Merlin, you’ll do yourself damage if you keep dancing around the topic like you are. Get to the point.”  
Merlin rolls his eyes, but he shifts uncomfortably.

“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Consider me warned. Now, out with it.”

Merlin frowns again and Arthur’s about to get really annoyed when the idiot finally speaks up.

“Lance is coming back.”

Oh.

Right.

“He’s coming back for my art showing, he’s gonna be here the week before.”

“Oh, right.” That’s still seven weeks away. He can deal with that. Plenty of warning. “Why on _earth_ did you think I was going to freak out for?”

“Um, Gwen?” Merlin asks, like it’s obvious, pulling a face. “You sort of flinch every time that she mentions him, you know.”

“I do not.”

“You sort of do. I don’t think Gwen’s noticed; she’s too busy smiling at you like you’ve got the sun shining out your arse or something. But you do.”

“Shut _up_ , Merlin,” he scowls, aware he’s sort of blushing. _Too busy smiling at you like you’ve got the sun shining out your arse or something…. Lance is coming back…too busy smiling at you… at you… at you._

“You’ve got nothing to worry about, you know.”

“Why would I need to be worried?”

“I don’t know. You’re the one worrying. She’s with you, Arthur. She’s in love with you, which I sort of thought is something you’re relatively pleased about.”

“I am!”

“Then you don’t need to worry!”

“I’m _not_ worrying!”

“You sort of are.”

He sort of is. Well, he will be, when Merlin finally decides to shut up.

“I am not. Shut up, Merlin.”

Merlin just grins and goes back to finishing off his packet of quavers. Arthur spends the time trying to ignore his flat mate, feeling a combination of both anxiety and annoyance. Even when he’s finished the crisps, Merlin doesn’t get down off the bench, he leans over and flicks the switch on the kettle and then Arthur has to listen to the rumble of the water jumping and heating, instead of being able to focus on the pile of accounts. He frowns and fixes his glare on Merlin, centring his annoyance into the look and waiting for the outcome.

Merlin glances at him without saying a thing. He does it again a moment later and Arthur knows that it’s working. Merlin knows he’s pissed Arthur off and there’s going to be one of two outcomes, he’s going to say nothing and just leave after he’s made his tea, or he’s going to push this, whatever he’s got in his head as reason enough for Arthur’s annoyance. Which in the entirety of their sharing the flat, has never once been the fact he’s _sitting on the kitchen bench swinging his feet against the cabinets._  
Worst flatmate _ever._

*

 

Merlin’s right though, he is freaking out, or at least he goes through a period where he lets himself openly panic. The truth of the whole matter should calm him about the whole thing, except it doesn’t. Lance is a good person, always has been, and that had fostered a somewhat grudging respect for the man during the time he’d been with Gwen. He’d hated the man for being able to touch her and make her smile, yes, but Lance was one of those people that was just so damn honourable and _likeable_ for it, that his jealousy had been the only thing he could begrudge the man. It’s actually a little startling to think he was so rude. Lance has been gone for almost a year now. He’s almost finished his degree much like the rest of them and there’s nothing left but the real world to take on as he pleased. This time, however, Arthur has the upper hand and that’s what he holds onto in the lead up to Lance’s somewhat imminent arrival.

It’s all Merlin and Gwen and Morgana want to talk about, which just makes Arthur uncomfortable and sort of makes Leon look a bit shunted, so for a while Arthur makes a point of bonding over their mutual resentment for a man who is really very charming and charismatic. He must make a louder point than he intended over the whole thing, too, because Gwen asks him about it all and that just makes him even more uncomfortable.

“You’re not worried, are you?” she asks one night while they’re curled up on the couch, enjoying the peace and quiet of the flat. It’s rare for any quiet around the place lately. Merlin’s been idly bringing Freya by every now and again, and while she’s not a terrified flower, she’s still small, slender and quiet by nature, and Merlin makes up for both by just talking for her and himself and anyone still in the room at the time he opens his mouth. So Arthur takes what he can get these days, curling up with Gwen whenever they have the chance. Tilting her head up to look at him, he pairs his blue eyes to her brown and frowns, not quite following.

“About Lance,” she clarifies and then she looks absolutely terrified, like she’s not sure she should have asked the question, which considering Gwen is a near impossible feat.  
Ah, that. He frowns some more, but he doesn’t stop brushing his thumb in circles against her arm.

“Why would I be worried? He’s a good guy. I’ve missed him.”

“You’ve never written or called.”

“No.”

“Merlin mentions you to him. I wasn’t sure if you were particularly good friends.”

“I guess we weren’t. I know why though.”

“Why?”

“I was jealous. That’s not particularly hard to understand. Especially if you talk to Merlin, which you undoubtedly have quite a lot.”  
She goes a little red then, and presses her lips to his collarbone.

“You really did used to like me then?”

“Used to, Guinevere? I’m pretty sure I like you now, you know.”

“Oh, no, I meant back when – with Lance. I mean…you were. You know what I mean. Oh, shut up.”

He laughs softly and leans down to kiss her forehead.

“I know what you mean. And yes, I did. I was so pissed when he worked the courage up and I didn’t. I hated him on principle. For a long time.”  
“Oh, well, you don’t need to.”

“I know. I trust you. I _love_ you, Gwen.”

“I know, and I you.”

Gwen at least doesn’t mention Lance again for a long time, which he’s sort of grateful for, but at the same time unsure about whether it has anything to do with her being able to read him like a book, or the simple fact that things have picked up once again and Merlin’s gone back into a mild panic now he only has a month left to finalise his works and submit them to the museum.

Arthur spends many a night with his own work spread out on the kitchen table, listening to Merlin rant on about Kilgarrah, who despite being a beacon of advice, doesn’t appear to be someone Merlin particularly likes. Possibly because he keeps pushing him.

“‘Do it better, young Emrys. You have the talent. It is your _destiny_ to belong in art museums the world over’. Bull _shit_. He bloody well likes everything I do, but tells me they all need work. But do you think he could tell me which parts need work? No! He just tells me to take it away and fix it. Return when it’s done and I bloody well don’t know what to do to make it _done_. Eugh!”

Arthur’s learned to keep his mouth shut because he’s worse than Kilgarrah, he looks at things and likes them and doesn’t see why they need twelve layers of paint on top of what’s already there, okay – so often it _does_ make it look better, but Merlin’s never satisfied. Gwen keeps telling him it’s the prerogative of an artist, that nothing is ever finished or quite the way they saw it in the first place, which sort of makes him feel safe and content in his world of numbers and business, where things _can_ have an end. A completely realistic end.

Still, it’s nice to be suddenly so busy again. Life had become somewhat slow and repetitive, the only real excitement permeating the fog over the last month and a half had been Morgana slipping in her six inch Louboutins and slicing her hand open while bracing her fall. It had been enough for Arthur to spend an entire afternoon with her at A&E because for some God-awful reason she wouldn’t let him call their father’s private GP who could have done the exact same job, stitching up her hand and selling her a damn ankle brace, warning her off anything with heels for a few weeks. In fact, the GP might have been able to withstand the violent glare Morgana had started wearing when she’d been warned off her beloved shoes.

Above and beyond the entertaining afternoon in hard plastic chairs and over-filtered air and bad coffee, the slip had earned them a demand from Pendragon Manor for dinner the next day in some vague bid to ensure Morgana was all right from their father. The man had been oddly concerned about the whole matter, even if he was two days late. Out of everything surrounding the fall, well, that had been the most eventful; watching Uther Pendragon showing compassion. Not that it lasted the entire evening. By the end of the dinner, they’d been grilled on their love lives (Morgana’s wild single-dom was looked down upon and Uther was still disappointed Arthur was dating that ‘Gwendolyn Girl of Morgana’s’) and the fact the pair of them were still living in the university apartments he’d bought them, before finally settling into their careers. He had little to say about Morgana’s research and her consulting business she’d established with several directors and writers in both the UK and overseas, which had been a common point of contention between them ever since Morgana had made a point of studying medieval history and folklore at university instead of business and economics like Arthur. Which still wasn’t entirely enough, apparently, when Uther had finally turned his attention on Arthur and there had been a twenty minute ‘discussion’ on his performance in the accounting department and what Baldrick had been saying about him.

It had been enough to put them both off dealing with the man again anytime soon, something that was going to be infinitely easier for Morgana, considering she didn’t have to work in the same building as him the very next day.

The rest of the night had been definitely more entertaining when they’d got back to Arthur’s flat to find Merlin lying flat, spread eagle on the floor with a cushion over his face, moaning at Gwen and Leon, who were on opposite sides of the couch wearing identical bemused expressions.

The rest of the evening had been dedicated to getting Merlin drunk enough to shut up and pass out and stop moaning about his paintings and that had been that. It had almost made up for the rest of the evening.

All the same, that had been nearly three weeks prior and while Morgana should have been in flats for another fortnight at the earliest, she’d been back in her heels three days after her fall and things had gone back into a slumped boredom of waking up, going to work, Friday nights in the pub, Thursday through Sunday sleeping with Gwen, whose bed they wound up in a pointless argument. Not that he doesn’t enjoy that part of his routine. That part is always fun.

Unfortunately, once Merlin’s panic starts to heighten and the time before the show gets shorter and shorter, Arthur gets so caught up laughing at his idiot best friend that he almost completely forgets about Lancelot coming back.

Pretty much right up until the point where he only remembers when Merlin comes home one afternoon talking six words a second about organising a welcome home party for him.  
*

The welcome back party is nearly as uneventful as the farewell party had been. The only difference Arthur can pin down is that Lancelot’s cut all his hair off and that this time he’s almost against the whole thing. Which is a big difference indeed, because before he’d been all for Lance leaving, right up until the last moment when he remembered what a good guy he was. This time he has more to lose. He has Gwen to lose and he’s well aware of his irrationality as he stews in his own paranoia at the pub.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about, you know,” Merlin says gently, nudging Arthur with an elbow and pushing another pint across the table.

Arthur jolts out of his reverie and eyes Merlin askance. Merlin’s been spending a lot of time with Gwen and Freya lately, organising tonight. They’ve had to relocate their corner of the pub because their booth no longer fits them all. Rosa, the owner, doesn’t mind too much; they’ve been going to the same place for years now and there’s not much short of destroying the furniture that they haven’t done in here, not that the old girl needs to know. This is where they had Lance’s farewell and this is where they come down every Friday night and now he and Gwen are together, Lance is back in town, Leon’s part of the group, Merlin has a girlfriend and Morgana is sleeping with someone she wont talk about in any certain terms other than teasing them all about how good he is in bed. They’ve come a long way in the last twelve months. Hell, he works for his father these days and in a week, Merlin’s got another art show and if it all goes well it’s going to put him on the map in the art world.

It shouldn’t be as hard as it is to stand up and slap the guy on the back and shake his hand.

“Arthur Pendragon,” Lance says in that easy way he has that could mean he’s as uncomfortable about their change in status as Arthur is, or it could mean he doesn’t care about the past and the changes since then and is just happy to be back. But the man is still back in Camelot, for good, if Gwen’s ramblings about flat hunting have said anything over the last few weeks, which can only say some part of him liked what he had here.

“Good to see you,” Arthur says all the same, aiming to be amicable. Lance is a good guy after all; he’s fair and always willing to help.

“This is Leon,” Arthur says nodding at his friend sat up in the corner with a pint already, the stiff posture of his back saying more about Leon’s uneasiness than he’d ever say out loud.

“Nice to meet you,” Lance nods, raising his hand up in greeting.

“Have you finished being old women yet?” Merlin asks all of a sudden, sounding bright and cheerful and carrying two jugs of beer which is just asking for something bad to happen so Arthur takes one off him and Lance takes the other at almost the same time. There’s a moment, then, where Merlin tuts and rolls his eyes and Arthur meets Lance’s gaze and then they’re smiling and he tries to push the whole rivalry bull to the side.

It’s all right for the most part. Lance spends half the evening talking about Spain and how much he missed Camelot, all the little differences that you don’t really know matter until they’re gone paired up against the differences in culture between Barcelona and Camelot.

Morgana starts pining for the beaches and Merlin goes all doe eyed for the architecture and Gwen just agrees with the both of them and Arthur spends the time trying not to reach down and hold her hand, because that’s just being possessive and he doesn’t need to do that.

Everyone seems to know him a lot better than he’s ever really thought about because by the time they reach their third round, Leon drags Merlin off to play pool in the corner and the girls follow because for some damn reason when Merlin’s drunk his hand-eye coordination seems to get better than when he’s sober, manifesting in a bizarre ability with pool, darts, dice and card tricks that seemed to make buying the idiot a wizards hat for his birthday absolutely perfect.

Unfortunately that leaves him alone with Lance at the table, watching the group gaggle around each other laughing and egging the two boys on and it’s pretty much the last thing he wanted to happen and the only thing that really needed to. Still, he hates them all a bit for abandoning him to things that will make everything better. He really did prefer the moping.

“They haven’t changed much have they?” Lance says then and Arthur frowns, because he’s right, the core of them hasn’t. They’re all sort of the same as they were, they all have their parts.

“I thought I’d come back and there would be no place for me. But everyone has been so accommodating,” Lance continues and that open honesty makes Arthur squirm.

“They missed you,” he says, trying not to emphasise the adverb and how he is missing from that revelation. He’s not sure if Lance picks up on it or not, but he doesn’t hesitate in replying.

“I missed them,” Lance says, still watching the four others.

Arthur lets his gaze drift to Gwen and Morgana who are standing together talking in what appears to be whispers; he can’t help but smile as he reaches for his glass.  
“You don’t have to worry about Gwen and I, Arthur,” Lance says then, and Arthur nearly chokes on his beer, spluttering as he hurries to set it down again.  
“Excuse me?” he coughs, and Lance looks concerned.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine. What did you say?”

Lance colours and looks back at the table.

“You’re worried, about Gwen. You don’t need to be. I see the way she looks at you. You’re a good man, Arthur; I could not make her unhappy by trying to change what she has with you. She is happy. That is all I have ever desired.”

Arthur narrows his gaze, because how can someone be so giving? Over Gwen? Sweet Gwen, who is clapping and laughing as Merlin sinks a ball at the table and starts a drunken, flailing victory dance. It doesn’t seem right.

“Thank you,” is all he manages to say, but Lance just nods and slaps Arthur on the shoulder as he stands up and heads over to the table to join the others.  
Arthur stays at their booth and watches them all, Morgana and Merlin, Leon, Gwen and now Lance.

He searches for that resentment and finds nothing, and for a while it’s as simple as that.

 

*

 

It all sort of rearranges and fits itself back together soon after, as life is wont to do. There isn’t long before Merlin’s show, so, admittedly, Arthur doesn’t see much of Lance in the days after his welcome back party. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t hear everything second hand. Gwen is like a bubbling brook of excitement having him back, which doesn’t make Arthur’s caution go away, but Lance’s honesty the other night seems to make sure it doesn’t flare up, either. Gwen spends most of her time at the flat anyway, chatting with while Merlin sits on the floor painting like it’s going out of fashion leaving Arthur attempting to concentrate on the work that never seems to disappear out of his inbox. But despite the fact it’s Merlin’s show on Friday, Arthur seems to have more work to do in the run up than Merlin; it’s almost like it’s a challenge he doesn’t know about and Arthur wouldn’t be surprised if Baldrick and his father had orchestrated it as a test of his perseverance. It’s draining and he spends two days nursing the same pressure headache from staring at numbers day in and day out, but there’s still that satisfying feeling that settles in his stomach when he manages to catch sight of the bottom of his tray, even if it’s full by the time he returns the next morning. He _knows_ he’s doing good work, but very little seems to come out of it in terms of recognition.

In the end he spends most of the week looking forward to Merlin’s show and the days of freedom it promises. But the morning of the exhibit dawns with Morgana pouring half a glass of water on him and staring down at him with her arms folded and right from that moment he realises later he should have expected the whole day to fall out from under him.  
“Morgana!” he shrieks, in a way completely manly and not at all high pitched as he finishes spluttering and fighting with his blankets, Morgana cackling in glee and Gwen giggling from the end of the bed.

“What on earth was that for?!” he yells, completely awake but not entirely lucid, the fuzziness of his dreams still clinging to the backs of his eyelids and for a moment he is entirely, genuinely confused why Gwen doesn’t have a giant purple Saint Bernard and that they weren’t going on holiday to Venezuela in Leon’s fighter jet.

“It’s the 4th, Arthur. Merlin’s show is tonight.”

Well, that explains why Gwen and Morgana had broken into his apartment, he figures, as he cleans the sleep from his eyes and runs his fingers through his hair.  
“Fine,” he sighs. “Can you get out so I can find some clothes and get in the shower?”

Morgana just sniffs at him.

“Hurry up. I want to wake Merlin up in half an hour. We have the entire day planned out and I made Leon bring rope. I will tie him down if I need to,” she says and Arthur spends a few moments after she drags Gwen out the door, it swinging shut behind them, contemplating the idea that Morgana may have forgotten that they all know her threats have always been serious.

Still, the shower helps wake him up completely and by the time he’s finished and dressed, he’s already starting to feel the beginnings of something he can only pin down as excitement for the evening ahead.

He’s not surprised in the slightest when he exits the bathroom to find Leon in the kitchen fixing a pot of coffee that Arthur appreciates wholeheartedly. Nor is he surprised to find Gwen and Freya on the couch, Lance sitting on the footstool.

“Where’s the Harpy?” he asks glancing around the room. Morgana is missing.

“Right behind you,” Morgana grins and Arthur jumps, which seems to amuse everyone else in the room. Most of them stop laughing when he starts swearing at the coffee spilling over his hand and only just by some obscene miracle, missing his shirt.

“Jesus Christ, you’re not happy breaking into my flat, you want to kill me as well, do you?” he snarls and Morgana just snickers.

“Oh Arthur, I think it’s pretty clear I keep you around to amuse me. It would short live my happiness to simply get rid of you.”

“As long as I’m giving you something, Morgana,” he snaps, feeling defensive. It’s too early for this shit.

“So,” he starts, setting the coffee down.

“Are any of you going to tell me why you all break into our flat at six am on a Friday?”

“Merlin,” they all answer at once, each and every one of them making the man’s name sound like the word _‘duh’_ , either that or Morgana’s derision seems to take control over the others wholeheartedly.

“What’s the plan then? Morgana mentioned a plan. You’ll need one,” he says, facing the group. “Last time Merlin had a show he tried to jump out the bathroom window. The only reason he didn’t is because we’re on the second floor.”

“Really?” Leon asks, only just managing to hide his snicker. He can see the wide eyed half shock in Gwen and Freya’s gaze, which just serves to remind him that he never really told the others that and it’s not certainly something Freya would know unless Merlin had brought it up.

“Err, no?” he says and Morgana snorts.

“He hasn’t had a nervous breakdown at all this week, so I figured we’d keep him busy today just to be on the safe side.”

Which is an idea that Arthur can’t argue with, which is what makes Merlin’s reaction when they find him all the more infuriating and simultaneously hilarious. First, however, it has to start with Morgana slipping around Arthur and making for Merlin’s room, the whole lot of them pretending they aren’t watching as she knocks on the door and calls Merlin’s name.

“You’re going to have to go in there,” Freya says after a moment where everyone is quiet, waiting for Morgana to hear something and go inside. Morgana turns to eye the slip of a girl.

“Seriously, he sleeps like he’s in a coma,” she shrugs and Leon chuckles into his coffee while Arthur smiles and looks at Gwen. They all know it’s the truth, really. Merlin once fell asleep on Arthur’s leg while they were watching Doctor Who and slept through three episodes before Arthur could wake him up and get him to let go of his knee.  
Morgana smiles wryly and knocks again.

“Alright you slumbering princess, time to wake up,” she calls and opens the door. Arthur turns to his coffee, still listening because he doesn’t entirely want to miss Merlin’s grumbling until he realises what day it is, but it was still going to take ten minutes to wake the idiot up; plenty of time to drink his coffee.

Except it doesn’t take ten minutes because Morgana storms out of the room a moment later, her hair flicking like a cat’s tail.

“He’s not in there! How the bloody hell did he get past us? We’ve been here half an hour!”

“What do you mean he’s not in there?” Arthur splutters.

“I mean exactly what I said, he’s not in his bed, _Arthur_ ,“ Morgana snaps like she’s sick of explaining it even though she’s only said it once.  
Freya’s eyes widen and she climbs off the couch to go into the bedroom and check for herself.

“You’re meaning to tell me that Merlin Emrys managed to wake up before any of you and disappear?” he asks his sister pointedly, half for the satisfaction of pointing out her error and half in his own misguided terror. How the hell did _Merlin_ get past _Morgana_?

“Well what other explanation do you have, Arthur? He couldn’t have slept anywhere else unless he’s taken to curling up in the airing cupboard, because he’s not made a bloody nest out of the bath and he’s not on the couch, so where else could he be?”

Arthur turns to look at Freya as she walks back out of Merlin’s room.

“His bed’s cold.”

“Well he clearly hasn’t been there for a while. He probably went for a walk.”

Which means he probably didn’t go to sleep when Arthur had herded him into the room around 1am the night before.

Everyone falls quiet for a moment and all eyes turn to Morgana as she pulls her phone out of her pocket and starts hitting buttons like she’s going to push her fingers all the way through the device. There’s a period of quiet like they’re all holding their breaths before the flat rings out with the dulcet tones of Merlin’s phone, the Doctor Who theme tune fighting to be heard from the underside of one of the couch cushions. Gwen digs it out and looks apologetically at Morgana for a second. Arthur just rolls his eyes.  
“Bloody hell, Merlin, you twit,” he mutters, more to himself than for anyone else’s benefit, but he still reaches for his keys in the bowl on the kitchen bench.  
“I’ll go and find the idiot,” he says heading for the door.

Everyone mills around him for a bit as Leon and Lance follow and start putting their shoes on. Morgana never took hers off because she’s a devil woman determined to ruin his floors and Gwen just looks at Freya and they share a nod that must be an entire conversation in female terms, because Gwen just turns to Arthur and smiles.  
“We’ll stay here in case he comes back on his own. I’ll call you if he does.”

Arthur nods and in a fit of spontaneity rushes across the room to kiss her. She giggles at him and pushes him towards the door and Arthur smiles all the way down the elevator until they reach the front of the building.

There’s a chill to the air, a sharp cold nip that serves to wake him up from what was left of his stupor. The air smells clean in the mornings, it never seems to matter that the same amount of people live in the city, the mornings bring with it this breezing delight he’s never been able to get over. It’s the same every morning, he’s never let anyone see it, but it always makes him smile as he walks from the building to his car, walking at a slow pace to enjoy the peaceful quiet where the cars are few and far between and there’s a half dozen eager walkers out with their dogs and the early morning, content to start their day.

Today isn’t any different, it’s not far off the usual time he’d be leaving for the office, giving himself enough time to stop by and enjoy a coffee at the café near the citadel that imports their beans from Italy and would normally make Merlin roll his eyes and mutter about Arthur’s arrogant roots. The idiot doesn’t even drink coffee, so he can’t really comment on what’s good and what’s not, as far as Arthur’s concerned.

Today feels a little off kilter as he walks down the footpath with Lance and Leon on his heels, the soft, early-morning grey as the sun struggles to take control, drooping over the landscape. The click of Morgana’s heels on the footpath breaks the calm but they don’t last long as she heads for her car.

“I’ll circle the block and head towards the citadel,” she calls out and Arthur nods to her before turning his attention to Lance and Leon.

“You guys go left, I’ll go right and we’ll circle the block, if we don’t find him then we’ll go further out. I’ll call you if I see him.”

Leon and Lance nod and start heading down the hill as Morgana’s Maserati pulls away from the curb and Arthur watches them go for a bit before turning and heading in the opposite direction, heading away from the city. Towerton East is quiet more than it’s anything else. It’s full of city dwellers who like their privacy and their quiet almost as much as they like their cars and purebred dogs. The amount of times he’s had to convince Merlin out of bringing home a mutt from the pound or buying a cat or a rabbit with a leash so he can take it for walks is trying enough on his patience, even though he has to admit, he likes the outrage the street has about Merlin’s battered little car as much as Merlin does. It’s not quite the outcast story Merlin makes it out to be, the damn thing has no hopes of rising up to great heights because it’s practically a miracle it starts every morning as far as Arthur’s concerned. But much like Merlin, the car is persistent and grows on you when you’re not looking, so the next time you’re angry with the damn thing, you can’t ever go as far as to get rid of it.

Arthur chuckles quietly to himself as he strides up the in-climb towards the larger manor houses, away from the blocks of apartments and townhouses and along the second boulevard towards a little children’s park they’d found one night when Merlin had brought home absinthe and they’d thought it was a good idea to go exploring. The things the madman makes him do, Arthur thinks with a snort, really is astounding.

But the park is empty and from there Arthur really has no idea where else the idiot could be, and considering the time and how long he could have been gone, realistically, he could be anywhere.

Still, it’s not exactly horrific walking the streets looking. It’s a little annoying, and in the back of his head, a little worrying; but it’s not pressing or entirely hard work enjoying the morning, listening to the birds call to one another, smiling at his fellow early risers and embracing the slight wind that’s not enough to ruin the day.

In the end, the sound of his phone suddenly shrieking in his pocket is the real inconvenience of it all so far and he’s glad that no one was walking with him when it goes off because he jumps and spends a moment calming the pounding in his heart before he answers.

“Hello?”

“ _We found him_ ,” Gwen says and Arthur huffs.

“And where the bloody hell was he?” Arthur stops and turns around, speaking of which, where the bloody hell is he?

“ _Morgana found him in the Citadel, they’re coming back here now_ ,” Gwen says and Arthur sighs.

“Right. Tell her to pick something good up for breakfast, would you? And Merlin better have a bloody good explanation for this.”

  
“ _Don’t be hard on him, Arthur._ ”

“Why not?”

“ _Because it’s Merlin? This is important to him._ ”

“And you know what’s important to me? Knowing the idiot hasn’t been kidnapped or dragged down a side alley or managed to get himself trapped in a long lost, previously non-existent sink hole in downtown Camelot, because if any one of those had been true, I wouldn’t have been surprised in the slightest.”

“ _I promise I wont tell him how much you care, Arthur_ ,” Gwen teases then and Arthur feels his cheeks heat and as he splutters to contradict her as she laughs at him, he’s once again glad that they split up and no one is there to see his mortification first hand.

“Tell him he’s an idiot,” he growls and Gwen laughs again.

“ _I will. See you soon._ ”

Arthur has no idea how soon he’ll see her considering he has no idea just how long he’s been walking, but while he’d been more idle on the way to wherever he is, and he doesn’t keep a strenuous pace on the way back, he somehow manages to find himself back at the flat sooner than he’d thought. Not that he’s taken the time to go walking through his neighbourhood quite so thoroughly in quite a while. He’d driven around the area when he’d moved in, but since then (and a few drunken adventures in the interim) his local area has been entirely foreign, so really, he shouldn’t have been surprised he wound up lost.

When he gets back to the flat it’s just the girls standing around the bench and Merlin sat on the couch looking rather content with himself. Leon and Lance are still missing and Merlin doesn’t shy away when Arthur just glares at him.

“You know they woke me up at six am, _Mer_ lin. So we could make sure you don’t try another dive out the window, and what do we find instead? You’ve wondered off. Tell me, Alice in Wonderland, did you at least follow a rabbit or something or was sleeping just too boring for you?”

“Did you really pour water over his head, Morgana?” Merlin just calls over the back of the couch. Morgana looks up from the pastry she’s eating, grinning widely.  
“We’ll do it again sometime,” she says and Arthur scowls.

“’Oh thank you, thank you for looking for this idiot, Arthur.’ ‘Thankyou for making sure I didn’t trip over somewhere in the dark and break my leg, Arthur – ‘“

“It’s too early to pump up your ego, _Arthur_. Stop talking or I’ll go and get a pin and pop it,” Merlin mocks, swinging his feet up under himself and rolling his eyes.  
Arthur takes a deep breath and turns towards the girls, looking for someone to take his side, but only finding amused expectation on every face.

“I don’t know why I bother if this is the reception I receive,” he mutters, kicking off his shoes and proceeding to trip over Merlin’s boots.

“You are the worst budding artist flat mate _ever_ ,” he tells Merlin as he stalks across the room to his kitchen in search of more coffee, his good mood dissipating in the wake of Merlin’s budding laughter at him nearly landing on his face, underlined by his nonchalance at just _wandering off in the middle of the night without your phone, idiot._  
Lance and Leon stumble back fifteen minutes later while Arthur is stubbornly burning toast and Freya is curled up on the couch feeding bits of _pain au chocolat_ to Merlin while Morgana and Gwen gossip like it’s been a normal start to the day.

And after that its like it pretty much is. Arthur spends a good deal of the morning confused until he figures out that everyone is treating the day like’s it’s normal because that’s what Merlin wants. Merlin doesn’t want to make a fuss out of the evening, so neither does anyone else and it sort of makes sense. Merlin doesn’t panic and no one else has to run around like headless chickens taking care of him. What’s better still, is that Merlin doesn’t have a strop when Morgana suggests he wear his suit she’d bought for last time, dropping it into conversation like a nuclear bomb into the middle of a living room, but Merlin just grins and laughs and agrees and that’s that. Arthur’s almost content with the idea that they might actually get there in time and reasonably presented after that, which he guesses later might have been the moment where he’d tempted Murphy’s wrath. Because it’s not an hour later where there’s a strict knocking at the front door that ruins everyone’s night.

The whole room falls silent as Arthur gets up to answer it and throws the door open to come face to face with his father. The day’s revelry and sheer possibility all just sinks straight to solemnity in a second.

“Father,” he says, not bothering to keep the surprise out of his voice. Behind him he can almost see the way the laughter is falling from everyone’s faces as Uther steps into the flat.  
“Arthur,” his father says in that way he has that still makes him feel like he’s about to get… not a lecture, this tone of voice has never held a lecture, but rather _advice_ on ways to _improve_. A thinly veiled disappointment that has always felt worse than shouting ever does.

“Morgana,” Uther nods at his daughter, spying her on the couch as he pauses in the living room, surveying the state of the place. Arthur can feel his father’s immediate disapproval at Merlin’s clutter; Uther has never been one to like a place that feels lived in. Pendragon Manor had never been a home, just more of a display catalogue they were never allowed to leave.

“Leon,” Uther adds, spotting Leon in the corner. Everyone else gets ignored. Arthur watches as Morgana’s gaze narrows and behind her Merlin squirms and Freya looks on, confused. Gwen and Lance glance at each other and standing behind his father Arthur’s never quite felt as alone as he does right at that moment, because he’s the one Uther’s here for. He knows that much and he’s going to be alone to face the onslaught, no matter what it is.

“If we can go somewhere private, Arthur?” his father prompts, turning to look at him, cutting out the painful courtesies Arthur can see brewing in Gwen’s linked fingers and Merlin’s squirming, because the pair of them still haven’t quite got it through their heads that there’s no one on the planet that a little good will can’t cure of their ills. They don’t understand there’s no good will that can change Uther Pendragon.

“This way, Father,” he says, leading the man towards his bedroom, casting one glance back at the group and catching Morgana’s narrowed gaze.  
“What happened to the study?” Uther asks as Arthur closes the door on his bedroom and essentially locks himself in with his father. He ignores the part of him that almost desperately wants to run out and slam the door behind him, locking Uther away.

“I converted it back into a second bedroom,” he says, and doesn’t that show how much his father’s been paying attention because Merlin’s been living with him for over a year now, and it’s not like his father had missed that. There had been enough snide comments on that part of his socialising on more than one occasion to set himself up on destroying Merlin’s ambitions for years. Even if the idiot continued to persist the way he did.

“It’s Merlin’s room.”

“A man in this sort of business, Arthur, needs a study.”

“I have an office, that’s enough.”

“Well, I disagree and to be perfectly honest, Arthur, I thought you’d have worked through your charity enough months ago and turned the boy out.”

Arthur fights to stifle the anger that flares red and hot at Uther’s derision, but his father barely seems to notice that he’s saying anything more than contrary observation.  
“I like having him here.”

“As unfortunate as that is, I guess the boy comes in handy every now and again. He can finish entertaining Morgana and his ilk. I need you in the office.”  
“It’s my day off,” Arthur scowls, embracing his annoyance at his father’s appearance. He should have known it would be something like this. It could _only_ be something like this.

“I cleared this months ago,” he says, remembering how he’d stood and watched his father sign off on it personally.

“And the demands of the company changed,” Uther says with a dismissive wave of his arm. “This is what comes with responsibility, Arthur. You’re needed at the Towers and that’s final. I have need of someone from Baldrick’s department and I trust no one else. Get changed.”

“And can I ask what’s so demanding that you ruin my afternoon? Merlin has his show tonight. I’ve had this booked ahead since we first found out about it. You signed the papers yourself.”

Arthur watches as his father’s disinterest peaks into something more like abject dislike. He simply doesn’t care, Arthur thinks, annoyed. He couldn’t care less - about Merlin at all, about Arthur’s personal life, about anything but family loyalty.

“The foolish boy you’re so attached to Arthur, is a dim creative fool whose flame will burst and die as quickly as its come. You do him no favours by pandering to his false dreams. You have real work to do,” his father says with all of the familiar sharp dismissal he’s used on Arthur his whole life at every point where Arthur had found some interest in an activity not sanctioned by Uther’s Great Life Plan.

It’s enough to rile him and he opens his mouth before his urge to defend Merlin dissipates.

“False dreams? Merlin’s got talent, and conviction; he’s got a chance at making it. He’s doing well enough on his own -“

His father scoffs and cuts him off early.

“Under the hand of Gaius Wallberk and Drake Kilgarrah? Oh yes, I’ve heard about your little friend’s successes and to be frank, Arthur, Gaius is a dedicated man, but easily led and Drake Kilgarrah is dangerous and renowned for taking a long shot. He’s spent the better part of twenty years waiting for his claim to fame, burning out bright little starlets like your friend, Arthur, and tossing them aside. Marlin, or whatever his name is, will be no different. What matters are certainties and business and the company demands loyalty to it and it alone in order to survive. You have to put in the work and maintain the conviction or thousands of jobs will fall and it will all be on your hands.”

“I work in accounting, Father,” he grits out, his head pounding with the desire to fight against his father’s insults against Merlin, but it’s a pointless endeavour; he’s never been able to win against his father in anything. Merlin will be no different.

“And one day you will be working in my position, Arthur, and you will need to be able to toss aside any commitments for the good of the many. For the good of the business. I’ve taken too long to remind you of that, I’ve let you settle under Baldrick too long and it’s time that changed. Now, don’t make me repeat myself. I’ll be waiting in the car. I want you dressed and downstairs in fifteen minutes.”

And as his father turns and leaves, Arthur knows he’s lost. His conviction, however fleeting, was not enough to break Uther’s barrier. And no matter how small he feels as he does it, there’s nothing else he can do but to strip off his t-shirt and jeans and start pulling on his three piece suit like it’s a suit of armour. It is, really. There’s a process to it he rather likes thinking of as akin to dressing himself for battle. He still has no idea why his father’s so determined to bring him in. It could be something serious, something that he wants to teach him so one day he knows how to resolve it. Or it could be as simple as he’d remembered Arthur had requested the day and taken it upon himself to remind his son that the company never disappears just because Arthur wants to do something, be somewhere, live his life with his friends.

It’s a desolate sort of lesson and he’s certain it’s not even over yet. It’s not really even begun.

There’s a hesitant knock on the door as he’s looping his tie around his neck.

“Yes?” he calls and the door cracks open a little and Gwen pokes her head in.

“Oh,” she says, half in the room, half out, watching him as he finishes his tie in a double Windsor.

“I have to go in,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound so dead to her ears as well.

“We figured as much,” she says, frowning. “Are you sure you can’t get out of it?”

“Do you think I didn’t try?”

“No, of course you did. I’m sorry – it’s just, Merlin’s – “

“I’m well aware that Merlin’s show is tonight and I’m damn well aware that I said I’d go, but I can’t just go against my father. Or the company. It’s my duty to do the work required of me and my father wouldn’t have asked me to come in if it wasn’t important. I can’t dismiss this.”

“But you can disappoint your best friend?” she sounds disappointed and Arthur stands tall, he has to otherwise he’ll buckle and he can’t. He can’t, not right now.  
“Merlin will get over it. I’ll get there as soon as I can,” he scoffs, feeling his resolve waver at his own uneasy dismissal.

“ _Arthur_ ,” Gwen admonishes and that’s enough.

“Dammit, Gwen! I can’t do both and Merlin’s stupid show is just going to have to wait, alright?” he snaps, and he knows he shouldn’t yell, he’s well aware of it almost from the moment he opens his mouth and the sound comes out harsh and demeaning and three points higher than he’d first anticipated. But it’s the way Gwen’s expression crumples that gets to him more than anything.

“Right,” she says, nodding, her eyes glistening and her mouth in a pinched curve. “Right, I’ll just. You can – right. I’ll just go,” she mumbles and turns and flees and Arthur slumps and closes his eyes for a moment, letting the pounding of his heart settle. It takes longer than he thought it would and he just wants the day to end right then. But it won’t. It can’t. He squares his shoulders and he picks up his jacket and his briefcase and he runs a hand through his hair and walks out of the room as confident as he can manage knowing that getting out of the flat is going to be like running a gauntlet. He’s expecting Morgana standing first in line with his kitchen knives, if he’s honest. Finding Merlin in her stead with his slumped shoulders and disappointed expression is a bit of a shock, especially when the big-eared fool manages to knock him for six in a single sentence.

“You know, you can be a right prat, Arthur Pendragon,” he says, pushing himself off the wall, leaving Arthur standing outside his own bedroom feeling lost for a moment before he forces himself to start walking and doesn’t stop until he reaches the car and slides inside. Morgana and Leon don’t stop him on the way out; in fact they’ve all disappeared from the living room before he’d walked through.

“You’ll learn one day, Arthur,” his father says as the car pulls away from the curb. “That this job demands more than you are currently aware and in order for you to do your job well, you have to put in everything you have, and your free time is the first to go. You have a job to complete, a duty to fulfil. That must always come first.”

 

*

It’s nearly half nine by the time he manages to get to Avalon, feeling tired and irritable and pitiful in a way that makes his skin crawl, and there isn’t even anyone at the door anymore to stop someone off the street just walking in. Still, considering the suit he’s still wearing it’s not like anyone was ever going to turn him away, not dressed how he is.  
The night has clearly started to wind down as he weaves through the crowd loitering around the entrance. It’s a big show, there are nearly 50 artists with works available, and considering there are a lucky few with more than one piece, there is plenty to see. Not that Arthur is there for the dozens of unknowns. He’s there to see four paintings and to try and save face because this is where he should have been all night.

There are still waiters walking around with trays of champagne and he takes one off the nearest girl in a black waistcoat and goes looking for Merlin or the others. It doesn’t take long, and realistically he should have expected it, really. Morgana must have been watching the entrance, because he barely gets further than the first hall before she pounces on him and drags him towards a corner, her heels clicking on the polished floor like an omen.

“You know, Arthur, there are days when I think there might be hope for you and then there are days like this and all I want to do is shake you until your brain comes out your ears,” she snarls, her fingernails digging into his jacket. He sets his jaw and glares at her because she is clearly pissed with him and dammit, doesn’t she understand the pressure he has? Doesn’t she understand that he bloody well tried to be here? That he rather would have been here, celebrating Merlin’s success, instead of listening to their father go on about expectations and responsibility like he doesn’t know how it feels to constantly strive to be better. She doesn’t know he told Uther to shove it and walked out when the older man is probably still at the office. She doesn’t know he did it yet, and the sting of her anger ignites something feral in him, something wounded and angry.

“Please, Morgana, do tell me just what I could have done? Because, honestly, I’m stumped. Father needed me at the office so I had to bloody well go. What else can I do?”

“What you need to do is prioritise. This is Merlin’s night and he wanted you _here_. He’ll never say it but you’re a right bastard running off the moment Uther crooks his finger – “

“I have to learn, Morgana – “

“And what was tonight supposed to teach you, Arthur? Uther’s not going to give you any more control than he already has until he’s stone cold dead and six foot under. He was making a point and you bloody well let him. What exactly did he have to say that couldn’t have waited until tomorrow? What was so important that he needed to drag you into something on the one night your best friend has his show. What did he say, Arthur? What did he try and teach you? That you have to make difficult choices? That you have to choose between running the company and those you love? Because you _don’t_ have to become him, you know. You’re better than that.”

His ears ring at that, his blood pounding and he opens his mouth when he should know by now not to.

“What would you know about responsibility, Morgana? What would you know about what I do and don’t have to be? You’re a bloody consultant. You read fairy stories all day and pretend that the media industry cares about the roots of myth and fable. No one _cares_ , Morgana. It’s about money, the world revolves around production and consumerism and sometimes that means running late for Merlin’s biannual showing off of his stupid drawings. There are more important things than art.”

“Maybe one day you’ll figure out what they are, Arthur, but you certainly don’t know today. Do us all a favour, go home before Merlin sees you’re here and you get the chance to crush him by opening your big mouth like you just did to me,” she snaps, her eyes flashing, and in that moment he’s almost certain that if he survives the night with his car intact and all his appendages then he’ll have more luck than he knows what to do with.

Unfortunately Morgana’s reappearance seems to alert Merlin to his arrival, because of course the idiot would know the pair of them like the back of his hand and be able to translate Morgana’s icy exterior as a sign they’d been talking. He doesn’t get as far as deciding whether or not he should bite the bullet and go and find Merlin himself, or follow Morgana’s advice and go home before he ruins the night completely when someone taps him on the shoulder and he turns around to find an expectant looking Merlin, and behind him a few paces, a disgruntled looking man in a badly put together suit.

“You made it,” Merlin says, sounding as hesitant as Arthur feels for a moment, but then it’s back to all bluster because Disgruntled is scowling at him and Morgana’s scathing words are still stuck to him like flies.

“We managed to finish up earlier than we expected.”

“Oh,” Merlin says and Arthur inwardly cringes because he didn’t mean for it to sound the way it did, but Disgruntled just latches onto him then and by Christ, can he get nothing right tonight?

“How courteous of you to show up, I’m sure Merlin’s real happy you’ve taken the time out of your busy schedule to breeze by – “ Disgruntled sneers, stepping up closer to Merlin like he’s a guard dog protecting his owner. Arthur squares his shoulders.

“Considering what I do affects whether or not someone like you will have a job on Monday, then yeah, you should be happy I’m here. Whoever you are.”

“Arthur – “ Merlin says, he sounds hesitant, but Arthur knows he should take it for the warning it probably is. He doesn’t though, because dammit, he’s _here_ isn’t he? He said he’d come and he told his father to shove it and he’s here and all of a sudden he’s not good enough for anyone. No matter how hard he tries he just can’t seem to make it in either form. Disgruntled looks annoyed even more at Arthur’s lack of recognition, which is strange, considering they’ve never met.

“M’name’s _Will_ , I’m the Best Friend.” He says it like a title, the smug bastard, before turning to Merlin.

“I thought you said he wasn’t an arse of a toff like all the others?” Disgruntled snorts and Merlin cringes, stepping between the two of them.

“Will, please – he’s not. Arthur, don’t. Just leave it. Please.”

“Why, Merlin? We meant to be glad he’s here now or sommat? You finished destroying lives for the afternoon have you? Finished eliminating people’s jobs like they’re just numbers on a screen costing you your lunch money so now you’ve got a little time enough to destroy Merlin’s night too, huh?”

“Will – “ Merlin moans and Arthur’s vaguely aware of the others gathering close, trying to hide the confrontation from everyone else in the room. But while he knows he shouldn’t bite back, he’s spent the entire afternoon feeling an inch tall, belittled and demanded of from every corner and he’s ready to snap; he’s practically roaring for a fight and how dare this small town arse waltz in and claim rights over Merlin when he’s been nothing but a feature in Merlin’s stories that all start the same with ‘Back when I was in Ealdor –‘

“The likes of _my father_ are the reason there are even shows like this, so by all means, release your aggression, lets tear the damn paintings from the walls because they’re nothing against the real world anyway. I promised I’d be here, and here I am. I’m not Merlin’s girlfriend or his babysitter. I can afford to be late and frankly, the state of a multibillion pound company that has the jobs of thousands on it’s hands is more important than one night out, especially one night where the company can get away with wearing _sneakers_.”

Disgruntled’s expressions turns into a snarl but he doesn’t get a chance to say anything because Merlin makes a pained noise in the back of his throat and stands between them, like he’s one movement away from pushing them apart, which just draws Arthur’s attention to the fact they almost look like they’re about to start brawling in the middle of the exhibit.

The rest of his friends are standing around them, Morgana looking furious with her arms crossed, Leon and Lance looking ready to get between them if need be. Gwen and Freya are looking worried standing next to bloody Elena Godwin who just looks a little bemused at his actions and he immediately feels contrite. What the hell is he doing? He forces his body to relax and he watches as Merlin lets out a breath. Disgruntled still looks murderous but Arthur has no intention of punching him, or responding to any more taunts. He’s had enough.

He turns to look at Merlin and instead of annoyance there’s this glint in his eye as he looks at him that makes Arthur squirm because it’s like Merlin can see right through him again. Like he knows everything that’s happened from the moment he opened the door to the flat to find his father until right now and he’s _sorry_ on Arthur’s behalf. He’s sorry _for_ Arthur.

“I won’t ruin your night any more, Merlin,” he says, hoping that Merlin can find the apology he wants to say but just can’t because he can’t show weakness here. He can’t show his back and let anyone else get a knife in, not tonight.

“I’ll make sure next time I’m more prompt.”

Merlin just nods, his blue eyes scrutinising Arthur as he makes a show of turning towards the rest of the group.

“I’ll see you all later,” he says and makes his break for it, leaving as fast as he can still with the dignity that his name dictates. Pendragons don’t run home to hide in their bedrooms like chastised, spoilt children, except that’s pretty much exactly what he does.

It doesn’t last long though, mostly because the idea he’s sulking like a child makes him feel ill, so he pads out into the living room and curls up on the couch with a beer and sulks there instead, intending on apologising to Merlin as soon as the idiot gets back. He’s always been terrible at apologising, and in the interim between when he parks himself on the couch and when Merlin finally lets himself quietly into the house and then trips over his own feet trying to take his shoes off, Arthur manages to talk himself in and out of saying sorry no more than four times.

And when it comes down to the punch, he panics.

“Hey,” Merlin says softly, sounding a little surprised as he pads into the living room, his mismatched socks, one green, the other pale pink staring up at Arthur ostensibly out of the gloom.

“Hay is for horses, Merlin,” he scoffs, but any humour his brain thought he could gleam from the comment falls flat on its face on the floor between the two of them.

“And cows. Do cows eat hay?” Merlin quips, ever quick on the uptake of pointless conversation, but he doesn’t sound angry, which Arthur tries to take as a good sign. But then again, Merlin isn’t an angry person by trade. Morgana on the other hand… he’s going to try and keep a wide berth from her for a few days. And that Will fellow, who is thankfully absent; for a while he was terrified that the man had invited himself to stay with Merlin, which would have made things absolutely fabulous in the worst possible way. Still, there’s something about Merlin’s sheer ridiculousness that makes him laugh softly.

“I can’t say I’ve had much experience with cows, Merlin. Or any sort of farming animal unless they’re being served medium rare.”

“You’re such a city snob,” Merlin snorts happily and the tension seems to settle at least a little.

“I am, Merlin, and I apologise.”

“No, you don’t. If this was an apology, Arthur, you’d just say sorry. But you don’t, you’d rather make your face all red and splotchy and look like you’ve got rice pudding in your trousers than actually say the word ‘sorry’, but I know you mean it so I’m going to let it go.”

Arthur just squawks and splutters and tries to ignore the fact that Merlin has him so fucking pinned that it’s actually a bit terrifying.

“I do _not_ look like I have rice pudding in my trousers.”

“Ha! I knew you were trying to say sorry,” Merlin grins, sounding triumphant and Arthur pouts. Or frowns. He doesn’t pout.

“I am, you know.”

“What? Sorry?”

“Yeah.”

“I know.”

“Oh. Good. So, how did the night go? Did you sell anything?”

Merlin laughs.

“Trust you to ask whether I’ve sold anything before you ask whether or not I had a good time.”

“I’m not having a very good night, Merlin,” he admits softly, watching as Merlin crosses what’s left of the gap between them and sits on the couch next to him.

Merlin’s quiet a moment then, just sitting with his arms half wrapped around himself staring at the coffee table.

“I know,” he says, finally, turning his gaze on Arthur and eyeing him askance for a beat, but all the same Arthur feels scrutinised like he’s pinned under a microscope all the same.

“I did have a good time, though. It was nice. I missed you not being there, but Will came down specially and Elena came and I didn’t spill anything down my very expensive suit and no one sneered down their nose at me. But that’s only because you weren’t there, I think.”

“Right.”

“And I sold all four of them, Arthur,” he laughs. Smile breaking loose when Arthur squirms, not sure where to take the conversation from here. “I seem to be doing quite well at this artist lark, or so Kilgarrah seems to think. He wants me to enter a series into some other competition in like three weeks but there’s bollocks of that happening and I think I upset him because I wasn’t taking his expertise seriously, or something.”

“Why must you upset the aristocracy so, Merlin?”

“Pfft, Kilgarrah’s not the aristocracy, he’s just got a bloated sense of self importance, like someone else I know.”

“I thought you weren’t upset with me?”

“I never said that, I said I knew you were trying to apologise and I was going to let you get away with not actually saying the word, I never actually said I’d accepted it or not you know. I am rather peeved with you, Arthur.”

“… Right.”

Still, Merlin smiles and settles back into the couch cushions with a happy sigh and Arthur can’t hold it against him. Merlin’s being amiable when he doesn’t need to be. He was an arse and he was late to Merlin’s show and Merlin is the bigger man and letting it be. His father isn’t going to be quite as easy going after what Arthur said. It must show on his face then, because naturally Merlin turns to his afternoon at the office and Arthur wishes he just wouldn’t. But he’s never really gotten what he wants, there’s no point starting now.  
“What about you, how did your afternoon go?” Merlin asks.

“Oh, you know, taxes, accounts, tracing accounts for tax purposes. Lots of numbers. Lots and lots of numbers,” he says, offhand, like it was nothing. Like there weren’t any lessons on where Arthur had gone wrong by simply having the gall to be a twenty-something semi-professional with the desire to have a fully functioning social life and friends who don’t hate him. Which apparently is fine for everyone else except Arthur. Like there wasn’t a ten-minute yelling match that ended with Arthur threatening to leave the company rather than deal with Uther’s stringent demands if it meant ostracising everyone he loves. It’s possibly one of those defining moments, if films or television is anything to go by. He doesn’t want to admit that it happened.

“He shouldn’t treat you like he does,” Merlin says then, like he knows exactly what Arthur’s been thinking which just makes him squirm again and want to get up and start pacing. Start moving, doing _something_ because all of a sudden sitting there doing nothing is making him itch.

“He’s my father, Merlin,” he says, his mouth moving of it’s own accord because he’s vulnerable, this is something he _doesn’t want to talk about_ and Merlin’s the only person that could get it out of him right then, and he’d damn well do it without even trying; Arthur can’t let that happen. “He’s my father and he’s the CEO of a multibillion pound company that I’m going to inherit and run one day, I think he has a right to teach me about running it.”

“Yeah, but there are things that you don’t need to know. You do pretty well on your own, you know. You’re committed and fair and hard working. Generous. You don’t have to make sacrifices just yet, Arthur.”

“One day I will though.”

“Maybe. But when that day comes you wont have to deal with it on your own, either. Running the company or anything else. You’ll be a good CEO one day, Arthur, but you don’t have to be one yet.”

“I have to learn, Merlin.” _You have to learn, Arthur._

“Everyone does. But I know you, Arthur, and you’re a good person, you care about people and that’s the place you need to start from. You can be a right prat, but when it counts, you’re strong and you’re there when you’re needed. I don’t know what it takes maths wise or marketing wise or anything else, but I know what you can give, and that’s gonna be enough. No matter what your father thinks, I believe in you, and so does everyone else.”

“How do I know it’s ever going to be enough?”

“You don’t, until you try. You’ve got time, Arthur. Learn everything you can and then show them all what you’re capable of.”

“Do you get all your wisdom from those horrible television shows you watch?” he asks with a hesitant smile that Merlin seems to understand because he doesn’t get affronted.  
“Most of it, yeah.” Merlin grins and Arthur can’t help but smile back at him because the idiot looks a little tapped in the head, like he’s on some sort of medications sending him off the edge of reality.

“Well it’s good stuff, whatever it is, wherever you’re stealing it from.”

“Thanks, I’ll let the writers know,” he says, his smile softening and Arthur feels the muscles in his cheeks rebel, because there’s no one he knows whose smiles are as contagious as Merlin’s.

“I’m glad your night went well, Merlin,” he says like a confession.

“Thanks. It was nice seeing everyone. I haven’t seen Will in ages and he came down to surprise me, which was nice. Even if he did end the night getting in a fight with you. But Elena heard about the exhibit off Morgana so she came, too. I missed her. We’re gonna go out for coffee next week and catch up. We missed you tonight, though.”

“You don’t have to placate me, Merlin. I tried to come, I really did.”

“I know. And it’s okay. I’m glad the bloody thing’s over anyway. They’re horrid things, shows.”

“Don’t you have to keep doing them if you wanna keep up this artist shtick of yours?”

“Well, yeah – but there are other things I can do. I might illustrate kids books or something,” he says with a shrug and Arthur laughs, soft and without any real reason, actually.  
“You’d be good at that,” he says, feeling the tension of the night unwind out of him then.

Merlin just smiles and leans down to rest his head on Arthur’s shoulder and he lets him, the warm weight of him a comfort.  
“You’re still the worst flat mate I’ve ever had,” he murmurs and Merlin snorts.

“Keep saying that, Puff.”

 

*


	6. Part Six

*

** Part Six **

**  
***

**  
_Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within._  
James A. Baldwin**

*

Despite working for the man, Arthur goes a long time without seeing his Father after their argument over Merlin’s showing. Angry and annoyed and without any desire to try and fight against the wall of his father’s expectations, he skips two dinners Helen tries to organise out of habit and hands over any correspondence required of him to Baldrick. But on the whole, it’s Uther who does the most avoiding. There are no forwarded documents, no messages or extra files, no input on higher decisions that used to make him feel lost at sea anyway. Despite the fact it’s an apparently clear act of disapproval, (one that’s not entirely his fault, given Morgana’s involvement as well) it’s strangely freeing in his father’s absence, which seems to allow him to really enjoy his position and the people he works with without the pressing demands from above.

He makes a point of going home at five o’clock each night and making sure everyone else makes it to lunch on time. Little things that seem to go a lot further than he expects them to in making him feel less put upon and all of them totally unintentional. He knows his father is trying to teach him a lesson by letting him be, but it’s almost more of a reward. It’s disarming, actually, when he realises that even working in the same building, he hasn’t seen his father in nearly a month, outside of a brief upstarting meeting with heads of department at the beginning of the week, and that didn’t really count because his father had made a point of not even looking at him. Still, when the knowledge occurs to him later it’s a hard blow to take, harder still knowing he’d enjoyed the quiet. Revelled in it, even. He’s sitting on the couch when he gets the call, watching Merlin swirl his fingers through charcoal he’s spent the last ten seconds grinding onto the paper. He has charcoal smudged on his cheek and Arthur’s been silently laughing at him; he has no intention of telling him it’s there.

“I swear I thought Morgana was going to rip my head off,” Merlin’s saying. He’s lying flat on his stomach along the couch, his feet in the air, swinging them behind his head. His t-shirts ridden up and it’s almost distracting to Arthur’s three-beer-in brain.

“If it was me, she would of,” Arthur chuckles and then groans when his phone rings. He groans again when he sees his father’s personal assistant flash up on the screen, finally expecting another summons to dinner.

“Helen,” he tells Merlin, who snickers.

“Hello, Helen,” he says, answering, and then his world seems to immediately fall apart.

Later, all he’ll be able to remember is Merlin, going still on the couch and then getting up, really quickly, and taking the phone off him. He’ll remember Merlin’s hands on his wrists, on his cheek, those blue eyes wide with concern. Then there’s nothing until he’s suddenly standing in the doorway of a very still and eerily quiet private hospital room, and he’s aware that Merlin is still standing behind him, but there’s no sound, no touching. Merlin’s isolating him, and even when he’s dead, his father still makes him feel impossibly small.  
He remembers shaking, standing over his father’s body and then he remembers Morgana.

A flurry of blue skirts and black hair and he remembers not a single barb off her tongue.

It’s all very unsettling.

Neither of them were expecting it. He had no ideas his father would live forever, but he’d never contemplated Uther dying unexpectedly like this. A small part of him can’t help but feel this petty revenge on some level he can’t quite understand.

His father is dead.

That, no matter what else he feels, is the truth.

He is not anywhere near ready for the burden of it all.

He’s twenty-three. He’s worked for Pendragon Incorporated for twelve months; he’s not ready for the weight of his father’s investors, the burden of inheriting the damn company. It’s a fate he’s been groomed for, but Morgana has always been more headstrong, she’d done what she liked for years, long before the time came to choose her degree and the life that would follow. Arthur complied to his father’s wishes, his hopes and dreams. The man has been dead all of an hour and he’s already panicking, already regretting complying for so long now that legacy is all he has left.

He’s not ready.

He doesn’t touch the body, he doesn’t know how. Morgana kisses Uther’s forehead and then leaves, her expression hasn’t changed in the entirety she’d been in the room, this forced calm that was almost alarming. Arthur can’t touch his father, can’t feel the cold of his skin when he knows if he does it will chase him for the rest of his life. His cold emotionless father replaced by a cold lifeless corpse. Even the thought is distressing enough.

It’s a shock when he feels the first tears on his face.

But then he stumbles from the room and he’s enveloped in a flurry of warmth and Gwen’s arms wrap around him so tight he can barely breathe. She’s so _warm_ and the feel of her envelops him, the feel of her hair pressed against his face, her smell, honeysuckle and spice, her breath on his neck.

She anchors him right there in the middle of the corridor.

“Oh, _Arthur_ ,” she says in his ear, sad and soft and caring. Arthur pries his eyes open, and over her shoulder he can see Merlin. Loyal, heartbreaking Merlin, who is quiet the way Arthur wants _everything to be_ , like he understands and their eyes meet for a moment.

Then Arthur squeezes his eyes shut tight once more and buries his face back into Gwen’s hair and lets go, just a little.

  
*

  
The days after are a bit of a blur as well and he’s vaguely aware of himself spending too much time on his couch, interspaced with too much time at the office, because for some god-forsaken reason he’s apparently inherited his father’s habit of working through loss, rather than working through his loss.

The only other exception to his haze is the lurking team of lawyers who seem to be constantly appearing outside his office even though he’s warned his secretary to keep them away. He doesn’t want to have to deal with them and the highlight of his father naming him as CEO of Pendragon Incorporated and all its responsibilities is that the burden of dealing with them is not something he can share with Morgana, or even Helen, who he landed with the job of organising his father’s funeral.  
It’s not something he’s proud of.

It’s just not something he can deal with, and considering their relationship, he doesn’t find it appropriate. Nor does Morgana. Still, the old woman had worked for their father for over a decade and he feels for her, dumping everything on her. She’s practically the closest person his father had to a friend, Arthur guesses. There’s Baldrick, Arthur’s prior boss from accounting who his father liked to greet as ‘Old-friend’ every time they met up, and Arthur’s heard half strung tales from the days of old. But like most of his father’s relationships, Arthur knows that real friendship disintegrated after his mother died, as did pretty much everything in his father’s life.

He leaves behind a legacy of a corporation and not much else.

Which upon realising that sends Arthur practically running back to his flat. He’s half aware he’ll be receiving a speeding fine at some point in the future, but it’s not something he particularly cares about once he’s back and Merlin is just staring at him as he’s standing in the middle of the hallway panting from his run up the stairs. He doesn’t say anything, neither of them do, but it’s like Merlin understands. He doesn’t question or reprimand, he just gets up and he wraps his arms around Arthur and holds him. Arthur knows he’s as stiff as a board, his limbs don’t want to work but it’s comforting none the less. Merlin isn’t Gwen, he’s hard and bony, all limbs and joints, whereas Gwen is soft, she’s a comfort in and of herself; Merlin’s comfort is partially in the act and the need. Merlin is calming.

But it’s not until later when Gwen comes around that he truly settles. She doesn’t ask anything of him. They retreat to his bedroom and curl up on the mattress, weaving their legs together. She’s warm as she rests her head on his chest and doesn’t say a thing as he restlessly plays with her hair.

It’s the calmest he’s been since before the call and he thanks every God he can think of that he has her. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he didn’t.

*

He is very much not ready the day the funeral comes around.

He wakes late in the day, his head muddled and his mouth dry and for a moment he almost forgets what he has to do that day. Then it all comes rushing back to him and it makes him want to hide.

The world has other ideas and there’s some part of Merlin who seems to be doing what someone else is telling him for once, because he drags Arthur out of bed with this solemn sincerity that is making Arthur twitch just seeing it written all over his friend’s face.

The most uncomfortable thing is that Merlin’s already dressed when he comes in to wake him. He’s practically smart in this black suit; something tailored that reeks of Morgana. It’s sleek and professional and even his shoes are shined and it makes Arthur sick seeing it, because Merlin is seven year old t-shirts, he’s scruffy black jeans and scarves in every colour of the abusive vibrant rainbow and the Merlin dragging him upright and tossing him into the bathroom for a shower is far more collected than Arthur.

The Merlin waiting to help him get dressed is the Merlin who had to bury his mother practically on his own when he was barely past twenty. This Merlin knows.

And Arthur doesn’t want him to have to experience this again. Even from the other side of the fence. It hurts him enough as it is, and his father has never been someone he’s ever been particularly going to mourn.

“You don’t have to come, Merlin,” he says, watching how purposefully blank his friend’s face is as he’s fixing Arthur’s cufflinks, but how he can still see so many thoughts whirling around behind Merlin’s eyes. He wishes he could catch one.

But Merlin seems to decide which one to share because he’s suddenly in Arthur’s space again, fixing his tie and frowning.

“My father died. Six months ago.” He says it like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t jolt Arthur back to earth so hard he nearly bounces. Like it doesn’t hurt that this piece of information wasn’t shared.

Arthur can’t find anything to say. Merlin didn’t know his father, that’s what he’d said. And that’s even worse. That maybe he’d known and met the man and had never mentioned it. Or worse still, he had and Arthur had passed it by. His expression must give something away because Merlin stares straight at him then. Like he’s begging Arthur to believe his next words but when he starts speaking he looks away again.

“I’d never met him, but I was in his Will. Gaius told me,” he says and he’s staring resolutely at Arthur’s tie, but Arthur’s pretty sure he’s not seeing it. Not anymore.

“Gaius knew who he was all this time. He’d been at my mother’s funeral and I’d never seen him. He’d never spoken to me. He must have known who I was. I was in his will. I inherited everything. But I never knew him.”

Merlin stops then, and takes a step back and Arthur still can’t say anything. All he can do is stare at Merlin, Merlin in his black suit, hiding behind his too-long fringe.  
“I went to his funeral,” Merlin says then, “and I didn’t tell anyone, because I didn’t know how. I didn’t know how to tell anyone he was dead when I shouldn’t have cared. I went because I thought it wouldn’t hurt, it would just – put it all to rest. But it did, and it hurt all the more because I was alone. I was alone at that funeral, Arthur, and I couldn’t tell anyone where I’d been because it was my fault I’d been there alone. It doesn’t make sense. I know it doesn’t, but if there’s one thing I know, it’s that you don’t want to be alone today, Arthur. You just don’t.”

And he’s right.

The service is stuffy and so pompous it makes Arthur’s skin crawl. There are so many of his father’s affiliates and competitors Arthur knows half the congregation is there just to make sure that his father is actually dead. Even worse is that he can’t quite get out of his head about how many of those same men are about to start hounding him from the moment the service is over to sell up and leave it to the real men. He can see it in their cold dead eyes and designer ties and he’s never been so thankful for his friends, lead by a very astute Merlin, who seems to be commanding everyone into forming a wall around Arthur and Morgana and letting no one through who even remotely smells of business, let alone the press.

Arthur almost laughs when he remembers Merlin going on about being able to sense bullshit rich tossers like a super power after he’d won DestinCity. It’s a superpower being put well into use and he’s never appreciated Merlin more.

Gwen sits between him and Morgana and holds each of their hands like a promise she doesn’t break because neither of them let go and neither does she. Lance buffers Merlin’s wall, hovering and talking quietly to Freya and Elena, who came of her own volition and chose to sit with them rather than her father. Leon follows Morgana around with his hand on the small of her back, or on Arthur’s shoulder and it’s a calm relief to have him there. It’s a relief to have them _all_ there.

But despite his friends’ compassion, the whole service seems to run like a business meeting and it makes Arthur feel like oil is running through his veins. He can almost feel the pound signs in the audience’s eyes as he walks to the podium for his father’s eulogy. It doesn’t feel like his father’s life he’s talking about, it doesn’t read like the man he knew, this lost, worn old figure who didn’t know how to talk to his children. Who had lost his sympathy and his empathy when his wife died and he was left with the faults of his labour – the bastard child of an affair Arthur had never understood the circumstances of, and a son whose birth had began the end for his wife. Uther Pendragon had known how to run a company and so he had run a company and let his children run along in his wake and Arthur doesn’t quite know how to express that, how to put to words the cruelty of his upbringing. How his father had denied him a family, even as broken as it ever had a chance of being. He speaks of a man with conviction and pride in everything he did even though it feels alien on his tongue because Uther had never been a father while he was alive and it’s almost like the man is cheating now that he’s dead and that’s what Arthur’s lost. He’s lost his father even though the man never deserved the moniker. So he speaks of the Uther everyone knew instead and tries to keep it together and tries to pretend that when he’s done, and they’re standing by his father’s grave as everyone else is leaving, that the way Merlin takes his hand and holds on while they watch the funeral servicemen slide the dirt onto the gold plate casket six feet below them doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t care. But he holds on, trying to pretend that the feel of Merlin’s hand in his isn’t everything that’s keeping him together.

Even if at that moment, it is.

  
*

Things move on quickly after that.

He can’t put off the solicitors any longer and two days after the funeral he signs on the dotted line (on eight pages, for three separate copies) and inherits a company. The board of directors stare at him as he takes over his father’s chair at the head of the table and he has never felt so distinctly unworthy in his life. But one thing Uther Pendragon did for him, was groom him for the day he would stare down the stupidly long table and he knows how to take control of a room when he needs to. The old men are no different than any other audience; the only difference is that everything he does from here on out has the potential to affect thousands of people. If he fucks up, then he fucks up every single one of his employee’s lives. It’s a burden uncomfortable on his shoulders and one he knows is going to take time to get used to.

It’s going to take longer to find people he knows he can trust.

Weirder still is the feeling he gets when he gets to his father’s office to find his own name on the door instead. Helen is still in her place at the desk and that in itself, is calming. Helen has been at the foothold of running PenInc for the last decade. He’s known her nearly half his life. He knows he has at least one alliance amongst the carrion waiting to betray him. It’s oddly comforting that all his workers in Accounting seem loyal as well.

It’s the lift he needs when he goes down to clear out his desk and finds everyone on the floor still as genuine and friendly as they were when he was one of them. The cynic in him can’t help but think that they’re probably all just sucking up to him. But he’s been hanging out with Gwen and Merlin too much and he takes the added brightness to his day with relish.

Things seem to follow in succession.

His father had been running PenInc with a steely-eyed glare and a hardened fist for decades, solitary and unreachable. Arthur needs help, he needs advice and something about that seems to inspire an honesty in both the Board of Directors and the Heads of Department that feels rather calming in the storm of stress that was left in his father’s wake.  
It feels strange that the company is sorted long before he and Morgana ever get around to dealing with their father’s house. It’s not something either of them wants to deal with, so they don’t and Pendragon Manor just sort of keeps gathering dust. The house is technically Morgana’s, as are the rest of Uther’s old properties beyond Arthur’s flat in Towerton East. Not that it makes much difference. Arthur had been at the reading of the Will and knows what his father had written, hoping that Morgana would one day occupy the manor with her own family and bring joy back to its ancient halls or some crap. But as far as Arthur is aware, Morgana is quietly happy in her free love or whatever she still calls it, and he can’t think of a thing less likely to happen than Morgana settling down with anyone any time soon, let alone _kids_. Still, the fact she hasn’t sold the place warms the cuckolds of Arthur’s very well hidden sentimentality that hopes maybe, one day, she’ll do as Uther had so desired.

Not that his sentimentality isn’t preoccupied on its own. Despite the stress of his new job and responsibilities, and the damning way he’s taken that stress out on his friends at random intervals, Gwen still smiles at him just for him. She holds his hand and whispers how she loves him in his ear and Arthur finds himself starting to think the inevitable thoughts of marriage and children that his father had so desired from his slightly elder sibling.

It’s strangely unnerving, but his father’s death has made things slide into a strange perspective that makes him think of his mother, and now that the company is his – not making those same mistakes his father had.

Both of which lead straight back to Gwen, whose laughing smile makes his stomach twist, who he always seeks out in a room, who makes him more content than he thought he knew how to be.

Spending as much time with her as possible becomes more important than even the company and he finds himself spending most of his time outside the office in her and Morgana’s apartment. He barely thinks of which route he’s taking home each night and inadvertently winds up back in West Hallton. In fact the only time he sees Merlin for nearly three weeks is their usual Friday night’s down at the pub, and even then Gwen curls up against him in the corner and Merlin sits at the other end, Freya on his lap, whispering in her ear while Lance and Leon and Morgana sit awkwardly in between them bitching about the couples on either end of the booth and pretending they’re not jealous about the lack of regular sex.  
“Oh really, little brother, what on earth makes you think I’m not getting any?” Morgana scoffs, one eyebrow raised in challenge and that’s a conversation that Arthur wants to leave well enough alone even if it means Morgana gets to smirk like she’s won and the others tease him ruthlessly. But despite how long he’s been staying at Morgana’s, he knows he’s been fucking lucky he’s yet to ever meet any of his sister’s dalliances, post-coital. It’s not something he ever wants to have to face.

Which is what makes it _really fucking awkward_ when he leaves Gwen’s bedroom the next morning, needing a piss, only to run head first into a boxer-clad _Leon_.  
Neither of them says anything, Leon just goes red and tries to avoid looking him in the face and Arthur knows he spends the time opening and closing his mouth.

“For fuck sake, Arthur, it was bound to happen.”

Naturally it’s Morgana who breaks the tension, standing in her doorway wearing nothing but one of Leon’s shirts. It’s possibly the most disturbing sight of his life.

But it’s enough to make him practically run for the bathroom and lock himself in there for as long as possible. From the sounds of Morgana’s laughter, she’s having a fantastic morning. Leon, on the other hand, had clearly gone for the coffee pot after the incident in the hall, because the house smells heavenly and it’s even drawn Gwen out from her pile of blankets.

When Arthur arrives into the kitchen twenty minutes later, fully dressed and desperate to forget the whole thing, he finds Morgana no more dressed than before, sharing smug grins with Gwen and he immediately hates them both.

“You did this on purpose,” he accuses and Morgana laughs. Leon goes red.

“What makes you think this is the first time, Arthur dear?” she asks sweetly and he promptly forgets how to talk again. He just stares at Leon in horror. Who shrugs.  
“Come now, Arthur. Coffee?” Morgana asks, grinning.

“We need a place of our own,” Arthur says instead, looking at Gwen; Morgana starts laughing and Gwen starts to giggle like the traitor she is, then Leon ducks his head and goes as red in the neck as Arthur feels. It’s nice to know his mate understands.

Fucking women.

  
*

  
It’s barely a week after facing up to the fact his oldest friend is sleeping with his sister before Merlin drops it on him, and all Arthur can think is that he’s not sure he really did mean it when he told Gwen they should get a place together. That, and he probably should have been expecting it.

“I’m moving out,” Merlin says during an ad break between marathon episodes of _Come Dine with Me_ , like it’s something small that can fit into a thirty second promo.  
But it’s eight o’clock at night, Merlin’s eating breakfast cereal and is still in his painting jeans and that god-awful Alton Towers t-shirt he’s had longer than Arthur’s known him, and it’s just _so Merlin_ Arthur doesn’t want him to go. He can’t think of anywhere else that the image in front of him is going to fit other than the couch they’re sitting on that’s worth more than Merlin’s car.

“What?” It’s the natural response and it seems to be the one Merlin was expecting because he sets his bowl down. It’s empty. It probably has been for a while so the idiot could figure out how to say it.

“I’m gonna move out. Freya and I, well, we want to move in together. We’re gonna get a little place closer to the gallery with bigger windows.”

“Oh. Right. How long have you been thinking about this, _Mer_ lin?” he asks. He can’t help it, the feeling won’t shift, he’s back to feeling betrayed.

Merlin shifts awkwardly on the couch and he’s back to hiding under his fringe and Arthur wants to get up and storm and possibly throw something at him. Then make him clean it up.

“A while,” he says, still looking down. Arthur frowns and then Merlin looks up at him, his stupid blue eyes wide and searching.

“Look, it’s about time we did, Arthur. I mean, you’ve got Gwen and I’ve got Freya. We’ve been together a while and we wanna try living together. Properly, you know?”

He does, but he doesn’t like it. He looks pointedly in the distance and waits it out. Merlin doesn’t say anything. He just sighs.

“When do you want to leave?” Arthur hears his own voice and wishes he’d kept his mouth shut for another thirty seconds if it meant he didn’t sound so damn croaky.  
“I don’t know. We’re looking. There’s a place on the other side of Ascetir Park that would be nice. It’s up for sale and I’ve got more than enough to get a loan.”

“Right,” Arthur says, stupidly. “Right.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” Merlin says then and when Arthur looks at him it’s clear he means it, but this is Arthur’s out.

“What on earth are you sorry for? Stop being such a _girl_ , Merlin,” and that’s enough to shift things back into gear again. The television goes up in volume and Arthur makes a point of watching it and pretends that it doesn’t hurt when Merlin gets up and goes to bed, long before either of them would usually have started the Dine with Me Drinking Game like they’ve always done with this stupid every-second-Saturday-night ritual. This is the mark of things really changing and Arthur goes to bed an hour later, still trying to convince himself it doesn’t hurt.

  
*

“ _We got the house_ ,” Merlin says the moment Arthur picks up his phone. He sounds a little unsure which somehow is what soothes Arthur enough to not say something rather petty and full of snark in response, because this is a topic he’s been trying to avoid pretty much from the moment Merlin brought it up a week ago.

“Congratulations,” he manages to croak and Merlin makes a noise on the other end of the phone that says he’s smiling. It’s enough to try and make Arthur smile even though he _really doesn’t want to,_ but Merlin’s always been a little bit contagious like that. He sounds a little excited and nervous and Arthur can’t help but take comfort in the sound of his voice as he keeps speaking despite what he’s _actually_ saying.

“ _They called this morning. Freya and I are heading into the agents in like an hour to sign the papers and stuff._ ”

“That’s great,” Arthur says, trying not to feel like he’s lying through his teeth.

“ _We should be able to move in by the 21st._ ”

“That soon?”

“ _Yeah. It’s been empty a while. I don’t think I’ll be able to pack everything by then._ ”

“Well considering the rate you do everything else, I’ll have to agree with you there,” he jibes, pretending that it’s fine, that it’s okay and he’s not trying to smother the little voice in the back of his head whimpering that _Merlin is leaving him_.

He must be too quiet for too long because Merlin sounds hesitant again when he brokers the silence.

“ _Are you all right with this, Arthur?_ ”

He has to take a deep breath in, in order to lie again and he’s still not sure he’s put Merlin off.

“Yeah. Yes, why wouldn’t I be? You can’t stay in my house forever, Merlin.”

“ _You sound off is all –_ “

“Long day.”

“ _It’s not even lunch time yet._ ”

“Exactly.”

“ _Fine. Look, I’ll get takeaway tonight,_ ” Merlin offers, like take out will settle the peace, just like it always does.

“Chinese?” he asks, sounding hopeful and Merlin scoffs on the other end.

“ _Thai._ ”

“Chinese is better.”

“ _I’m getting Thai; what do you want?_ ”

And just like that they’re back to normal, back to bickering and he doesn’t have to focus on the fact that Merlin’s leaving him. He knows he’s being dramatic. He’s well aware of that fact, but after so long of sharing the same house with the bumbling fool, having him on hand day in and day out, knowing he’s got Merlin and his stupid face to go home and cheer him up without any sort of effort at all has been a comfort he doesn’t quite know whether he wants to live without.

Not that he gets the chance to contemplate the idea.

When he gets back to the flat that night there’s Thai still steaming on the kitchen side and Merlin’s sitting cross legged on the couch and there’s a pile of flat boxes next to his bedroom door.

“Getting in early, are we?” he asks as he heads over to the kitchen and starts attacking the rice and korma. He can feel Merlin’s gaze following him.

“Freya got a whole bunch of boxes off Gwen and Maria at the gallery. I’m gonna start and see what I can get packed.”

“Everything went well then?”

“Yeah. It’s a really nice place, Arthur.”

“Big windows?”

He grins, wide, his eyes glinting.

“Massive. There’ll be no walking around naked for us.”

“Fuck off, you would. You’re an exhibitionist when it comes to getting laid.”

That just makes Merlin laugh and start choking on his food and Arthur has to spend the next minute hitting him on the back to make sure the idiot can actually move in with his girlfriend and not into a box in the ground.

But he’s right, in the end. The place _is_ nice. It’s a medium sized studio apartment, with a large sprawling empty space, sectioned off by a cast iron false wall with the kitchenette tucked away in the corner. The room has a stupidly high ceiling but makes it easy to accommodate the turning staircase up to what is essentially an indoor balcony with the bathroom and their bedroom. It’s the type of place that’s going to have plenty of space for the two art nuts despite their combined efforts to hoard every stupid nick knack they’ve ever owned. And the whole thing is just put together with its epic warehouse windows facing the west to let in all the afternoon sunlight the house can handle.  
It’s somewhere Arthur can see Merlin living. Living with Freya and in the space it takes them to shift the idiot’s stuff, all three years of it; he’s sort of grown on the idea of Merlin having his own proper space. Not that he gets much time to think on anything else.

Despite going to work, the only real things that stay in his brain are things to do with Merlin moving. On the Tuesday he invariably spends his afternoon trying to find more boxes with Merlin, while every time he goes home he’s faced with said boxes getting in the way.

Not that running away with his tail between his legs by Thursday does anything, Gwen just spends the entire time they’re curled up on the couch telling him about her day that she spent with both Merlin and Freya scrawling through Oxfam shops and the like looking for new furniture and how they found the most _amazing_ mustard yellow couch.  
He’s just waiting for the question to be asked and he’s sort of surprised it takes as long as it does and that Merlin sounds so hesitant when he finally asks whether Arthur will help him move the boxes to their new place.

“Of course I will, you idiot. You didn’t think you were going to have to carry them all yourself, did you? Your arms would fall off.”

“Well, I mean, Lance and Leon said they’d help but I wasn’t sure if you – “

That sort of stings, that Merlin thought he wouldn’t help, but then at the same time Lance and Leon volunteered. Arthur sort of assumed and now he looks like an ass.  
Funny, that.

“I’ll help, Merlin,” he says, clarifying for the both of them and spends his entire Sunday and Monday helping Merlin, Lance and Leon shift boxes out of his flat over to the new apartment, and then from Freya’s flat to the new apartment and then picking up the furniture the others had bought during the week.

It’s a long, arduous process and Arthur’s glad that his father bought him his flat and he has no intentions of ever moving out of the damn place because it’s a fucking tragedy to do. If he ever needs to, he decides silently, then he’s hiring movers and they can do the lot.

However, there’s this look of triumph on Merlin’s face that just can’t be beaten that night when they’re all sitting cross legged on the floor of the studio eating noodles with chopsticks and being depressingly nostalgic, not that he thinks about it. Still, they’re only 24, they shouldn’t really be into nostalgia yet. None of them have even got kids to blame it on, they’re all just being right fools and it’s nice. It’s comforting and slightly freeing in and of itself.

Still, that doesn’t stop how empty the house feels when he heads back to the flat. Even with Gwen staying over, curled around him the place feels empty. So many corners are missing Merlin’s stupid novelty statues and his art book installations are all gone. The DVD cabinet is half empty and there’s a stupid amount of room in the bathroom vanity because Merlin’s bloody face paints are all missing.

Arthur’s the one feeling unnaturally nostalgic in the days following Merlin moving out and a petty, selfish part of him wants to go over and beg for him to come back. Or to get his assistant to call the estate agents and find a reason to throw them out. He sort of understands how power corrupts after that, when he mentions it in passing and the bloody idiot that is his second assistant asks whether he can _actually_ do that and Arthur has to wonder whether he really could if he wanted to. His father worked quite a lot and PenInc has divisions and branches in basically everything. Something that despite how much time he spends at work over the next week, he doesn’t quite trace all the way to the end of the paperwork trail.

His own melancholia only gets worse when they all meet up at the pub the following Friday and Merlin and Freya spend the entire time talking about their new house and grinning like it’s the best thing they’ve ever done. He looks happy and Arthur feels bad for begrudging him that. He feels even worse when he feels Morgana watching him and he spends the rest of the night waiting for the moment where his sister is going to lean over and tell him off.

It doesn’t happen that night and it doesn’t happen in the weeks following either. He spends more time at work than he should and Morgana still eyes him in a way that says she knows so much more than she’s ever saying, but she never does actually say it and Arthur makes the most of her silence.

It gets easier after a while to acclimatise to Merlin’s absence. The house is quieter and certainly less cluttered, but given the freedom his empty apartment has, he starts to bring Gwen home more and more and there’s certainly something for the privacy that he appreciates. He knows that no one is going to interrupt when he starts kissing her on the couch and sliding his hands under her top and he can’t say that he doesn’t find Gwen’s growing knack for jumping him around the house anything but absolutely brilliant. He’s always found how shy and flustered she gets in public endlessly endearing, but he has to admit that the mischievous glint in her eyes when they’re alone is certainly something he now covets. He knows this part of her is entirely his and it makes something flutter in his chest like a trapped bird. It makes him crave her every time she’s not in the room and the feeling is both strange and natural at once. He loves her; it hits him like a startling realisation every time it occurs to him, despite years of infatuation. He _loves_ her.  
The feeling only grows when he asks her to move in with him. It swells when she agrees and then lulls for a while. Right up until it knocks him for six as he watches her unpack her clothes completely into the dresser in their room, as she arranges her endless collection of photo frames around the flat, filling the gaps Merlin’s stupid knick knacks left, as her makeup goes in the vanity and her towel sits on the rack next to his. It curls up inside him when she smiles that smile that’s all for him and climbs up the bed, in her knickers and a tank top and she straddles him and leans down for a kiss.

It unfurls in him like a wave when he wakes up with his arms around her the next morning and he realises this is the first night of them together in a house that’s theirs. That they’ve moved forward and it’s all coming together.

He rolls her over and presses his lips to the spot behind her ear, inhaling the soft scent of her hair and her skin and the sleep-warmth of the blankets. She sighs and smiles, moving into him. He can’t help but grin and presses a kiss to her lips as her eyelashes flutter open.

“Hi,” he says, feeling stupid and giddy, just like that moment back in the pub, all those months ago.

“Hi,” she smiles back and laughs as he leans down to kiss her again. She slides her hand up around his neck, her fingers curling through his hair and he moans, grinding down against her, his morning hard-on pressing against the firm flesh of her thigh.

She laughs, breaking the kiss and pulling him back, her fingers curling tight in his hair.

“Eugh, morning breath,” she groans, sitting up, her hair sleep-mussed and standing on end. It makes her look confused, her eyes drowsy and her too large sleeping top sliding off one shoulder.

“Good morning to you, too,” he grins, reaching out to rub gentle circles on the patch of bare thigh showing from the crumpled quilt.

“Sleep well?” he smiles. And from the moment that Gwen beams back at him, reading something in his expression that he hasn’t figured out he needs to say quite yet, from the moment she leans down to kiss him, on their first morning in a house that’s their own, he feels insurmountably content. This sheer joy he can’t quite figure out.

But it seems to carry over. It gives him the confidence to move forward even at work, initialising the fight to move the entirety of Pendragon Incorporated into green energy.  
The day the Board votes in favour of the project, winning him his first initiative and for the first time he feels like he’s stepped out of his father’s shadow.

The day he goes home to Gwen, giddy and proud he realises it’s been six months since she moved in and after that, the decision’s not that hard at all.

The hard part is the planning. In the wake of his decision he finds himself at odds with the importance of the whole thing and struggles for a while to deal with how the hell he’s going to go about it all.

Lying awake two nights in a row trying to decide whether or not a skywriter would be far too much for Gwen’s simplicity, he discovers that he’s possibly taking the whole thing far too seriously. A realisation that he tries to treasure after a while when he prompts the receptionists on level six what they would count as far as a romantic proposal would be.  
They titter and sigh and it’s all a bit alarming really, especially since three of them had practically shoved their cleavage in his face as he’d approached the desk until he’d asked the question. One thing he seems to find as a consensus is that actually asking for Gwen’s hand from her father is sweet and always a plus, but not in a I-want-to-buy-your-daughter way, like it pretty much used to be. It’s a bit confusing for a while, until he figures it can’t hurt and girls seem to like if their life could wind up being a movie.

Gwen’s father had retired to a little farm on the outskirts of Camelot some years ago and the drive out there seems to take a lot longer than he’d anticipated, but he finally finds the place, a little house tucked away between a couple of sheds and a bunch of sparse trees picked clean of their fruit.

His Lexus stands out far too much against the dirt road and there’s dogs barking as he gets out of the car. It’s the first time he’s come out to Tom’s place himself, usually the old man had come to Gwen, at least he had when Arthur had been with them. The man looks surprised as he cracks open his front door, a large collie dog urgently trying to poke it’s head through the gap to investigate the stranger imparting on his territory.

“Mr Smith,” Arthur starts and Tom smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling as a he surveys Arthur.

“What can I do for you, Arthur?” he asks as Arthur jogs the distance between them.

“I have a question I’d like to ask, sir,” he starts and Tom chuckles.

“You best come in then.”

Getting Tom’s blessing is easy; he smiles and shakes Arthur’s hand, gripping it tight enough to break all the bones in his fingers. He seems genuinely delighted with Arthur’s plans, and only brokers to threaten him the once as he’s just about to leave, dropping his voice an octave and telling him to “take care of my Gwennie, you hear?”

From there, Arthur’s back on his own, trying to figure out how he’s going to make it grand but simple, personal and romantic but then again public gestures can be amazing and every girl loves to tell her own story.

In the end when he makes up his mind it feels too silly, almost, but Merlin doesn’t laugh at him when he tells him what he’s planning on doing, for which Arthur’s glad; he’s pretty sure Morgana would have laughed at him.

“That’s really nice, Arthur, Gwen’s gonna love it,” Merlin says. He’s smiling in that way that says he’s really happy but all it does is serve up another swell of nerves.  
“It’s not stupid at all?” he asks and Merlin laughs, rolling his eyes.

“No! How many times do I have to say it? No, it’s sweet. Gwen will love it.”

“Is the ring too much? It’s not too big or anything, is it?” He spent a week with a designer of hand-crafted jewellery near the Citadel, and three weeks panicking about his decisions. The ring is gorgeous, but that anxiety remains and he’s not entirely sure if it’s just his own nerves or whether he’s actually screwed everything up. Still, he hasn’t been able to chase away the desire to see Gwen’s fingers glinting with proof that he loves her more than anything. It’s been a quiet thought since his father’s Will, something he hasn’t been able to chase away and Gwen’s presence at home every night does little to dissuade him. He wants to spend the rest of his life with her. With her crinkled brown eyes and her soft smiles and the dapple of freckles along her left hip.

“She’ll like it, right?” he asks and at this point Merlin sobers. The happy, teasing grin falls from his face. His eyes widen and he’s wearing that look that says there’s nothing else in the world that he’s thinking about right at that moment and it makes Arthur’s palms clammy.

“Arthur, you know Gwen. You’ve known her for a long time and you’ve been in love with her for most of that. If anyone knows what she’ll like, it’s you. Just trust yourself. You have good judgement, Arthur. You do. She’s going to say yes and you’re going to get married and have kids that Morgana and I can screw with,” he ends with another one of those disarming smiles he keeps hidden away like weapons of mass destruction and only pulls out to blind sight the poor bastard he’s aiming them at. It always works too, Arthur sighs and calms a little.

Merlin’s right, though. Which is never something Arthur has ever liked to admit. He likes the way Merlin frowns when he makes a point of saying so.

He can feel Gwen trembling under his fingers as he guides her gently up the stairs. She keeps emitting these tiny nervous giggles that are making his stomach flutter and he can’t stop smiling as he leads her into the flat, guiding her to the centre of the room.

“We’re here,” he murmurs, leaning down to press his lips into the curve of her ear and she trembles. He’s never wanted to kiss her so much in his life, but he stops himself. The ring box is burning in his pocket and his heart is pounding faster than ever before.

He slides around to face her, making sure his hand never leaves her waist. She follows him, blind, nervously biting her lips. His face aches from smiling and he hasn’t even asked her yet.

He reaches back to undo her blindfold and he watches, captivated as she blinks at him, doe-eyed and smiling.

“Hi,” he says, feeling stupid.

“Hi,” she’s grinning madly, her eyes dancing around the candle filled room. He has _no idea_ where Merlin managed to get all the damn candles from. When he’d broached it, their lounge filled with flickering light he never thought it would be quite like this. Merlin’s gone above and beyond and it’s amazing. Like stars.

Gwen at their centre, the Lady Moon.

It feels natural to slide his hands into hers. Her eyes follow him and he smiles as he kneels in front of her.

“Gwen. I have loved you for so much of my life I can barely comprehend the thought of living without you. You are my first thought in the morning and my last thought at night and I can’t stand not waking up next to you every morning. Will you do me the absolute honour – “ he stumbles. The words he’d planned slipping under his tongue and it feels funny, he wants to laugh, hysterical and never stop.

“Will you marry me?” he blurts out instead, opening the ring box and Gwen lets out a gasping sob and throws her arms around him. She’s soft in his arms, that same beautiful feeling rushing through him as he holds her.

“Is that a – “ he mutters, panicking and she lets go.

“Yes, sorry, sorry – yes. Arthur, yes.” Her grin is blinding and completely wipes everything from his head as he slides the ring onto her finger. The vague worry all these candles are going to set his flat on fire for one, the fluttering shame at bumbling his words disappearing under the feeling of her lips on his. Her body under his hands and he’s never wanted her more.

They stumble to the bedroom in a blaze of hands and laughter and clothing and it doesn’t matter because Gwen has his ring on her finger and when he pads out into the kitchen an hour later for the champagne he bought, the candles are all out, the champagne is in an ice bucket and there’s a graphite drawing of himself and Gwen kissing and a banner above their heads saying ‘congratulations’.

Arthur smiles.

He’s never been this happy in his life.  
  


*

  
Gwen takes to planning their wedding like a duck to water and she does it without pressuring him in the slightest, which is nice. He doesn’t have to deal with hampers of wedding clippings or dresses or anything ostentatious the way he remembers Catrina being when she’d married his father when he was fourteen. Gwen is… Gwen and it’s calming, knowing that even what he’s been told is the most important day of a woman’s life isn’t enough to make her any less of the simple beautiful soul he’s been in love with for years.

Everyone else tries to make up for it, though, teasing him about tux fittings and finding the venue and place settings. Going out to dinner with Morgana and Leon turns out to be a very bad idea because Morgana had taken to dragging them into fancy restaurants and pointing out the table decorations with this delighted glint in her eyes. It’s like she almost prefers hazing him than indulging with Gwen designing the thing. Though he knows she’s probably got everything half sorted already anyway. Morgana has always been a daft hand at planning things and he knows she’s Gwen’s Maid of Honour without a second thought, the same way he knows Merlin’s his Best Man. He still has to ask him, but he’s in no rush to drag Gwen down the aisle, and she seems to be in no rush to do the same. It takes them nearly two months to have an engagement party and even it’s nothing big the way it would have been if his father had been alive.

In the end it’s just his friends. Morgana and Leon, Merlin and Freya, Lance and Elena and there’s nothing formal about it. The girls coo over Gwen’s ring like they did right at the beginning. Lance and Leon have a drinking competition and Merlin manages to beat the pair of them being the drunkest girl at the party on half the booze, sneaking around the place to hug people or steal their cake and eventually he winds up sitting on the middle of the kitchen table making a card tower the way only he can. Arthur’s always found it amusing that the idiot might not be able to walk in a straight line at the best of times but even when he’s pissed his hands are steady enough to get four layers before in a fit of pique Freya knocks it over and they spend ten minutes chasing each other around the flat to the raucous cheers of Morgana and Leon on the couch.

“Stop spinning around! You’re making _me_ want to throw up,” Morgana laughs eventually, which just makes Merlin and Freya laugh even harder, but they do what they’re told and stop. Merlin drags her over to the couch and slumps down boneless and drunk and that’s where everyone stays. Arthur watches as Freya giggles and curls up into him, the pair of them shifting just a little so they’re both comfortable.

It’s a sight to see, really, the eight of them, paired up and stupidly happy – Arthur with Gwen, Leon and Morgana, Merlin with Freya and even Lance with Elena, the pair of them falling hesitantly in love after she dragged him into her father’s lawyer practice and increased his premiums exponentially so that even Arthur had a hard time hiring him.  
Lance suddenly starts talking then, about some TV show he’s been watching and that makes Elena laugh and lean on his shoulder for a moment and it makes Morgana groan and before Arthur realises it they’ve spent the last half an hour of his engagement party arguing about historical inaccuracies and how _no one cares these days, Morgana._ Gwen stops fussing in the kitchen and brings out bowls of crisps that seems to disappear before Arthur’s done little more than steal two out of Gwen’s handful and kiss away her pout.  
She tastes like red wine and it makes him giddy and careless. No matter how many times he thinks it or tells someone or they tell him it still shocks him; they’re getting _married_. Gwen is _his_ and she’s everything he’d always dreamt her to be. Her body feels _right_ under his hands, all warmth and cinnamon spice and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get over how stupid and light she makes him feel.

“We should kick everyone out,” he murmurs softly in her ear and she laughs quietly and that makes his heart sing.

“I think we’ll have a hard time with those two,” she whispers nodding towards Merlin and Freya. Freya’s asleep, pressed against Merlin. He’s playing with her hair and Arthur knows exactly what Gwen means, he knows how it feels to just not want to move _ever_ , just to stay right where he is with the woman he loves pressed up against him. He knows the feeling now.

He also knows what Merlin’s like when he’s drunk and Merlin is stupidly drunk. He’s still arguing with Morgana about how unfair it is that the BBC is never going to just _give in_ and make those two blokes make out, be damned if it’s a kids show. Kids shows deal with kissing _all the bloody time_ , why can’t they deal with gay kissing?  
Arthur doesn’t listen any further, he just chuckles and goes back to kissing behind Gwen’s ear and enjoying the sounds she’s making as she tries to squirm away and whisper about _company_.

By the time any of them look at the time it’s nearly half one and everyone’s suddenly struck with the tempered groans of getting up and going home.  
“I’ll call you a taxi, Merlin,” Arthur says as Gwen drags him off the couch and Merlin grins up at him.

“Cheers,” he calls out as Arthur wanders half arsed across the room towards the house phone. Morgana is laughing quietly while Elena starts tickling Lance where the other man had started to snore in the corner nearly twenty minutes previously and as he starts to dial he can hear Merlin trying to rouse Freya.

It’s chasing two am on a Saturday and Arthur can’t help but groan when the on-hold music starts to blare at him. He should have known he wouldn’t just get through. But he smiles and watches as Freya wobbles around saying goodbye to everyone, kissing everyone on the cheek and hugging Gwen. It doesn’t seem poignant at the time, but when he looks back on that minute of sweet well-wishes when she gets around to him, he recognises it for what it really had been.

A proper goodbye.

 

*


	7. Part Seven

*

 

** Part Seven**

*****

**  
_Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage._  
Lao Tzu**

*

They were only ever half hearted plans, organised somewhere between the third and forth bottles of wine the night before, but in all the years Arthur’s known him, Merlin’s never been so blatantly late. That’s not to say Merlin’s not ever late. He’s late all the bloody time. But he always calls to let people know when they have proper plans he’s going to ruin by turning up when they’re half over. It’s a niggle in the back of Arthur’s head when they show up at the café the next morning (afternoon) and are there for more than half an hour and the idiot hasn’t even texted.

 

 **To: Idiot**  
13:17  
Where are you????

 

He taps out for the fourth time, feeling Gwen’s gaze on him when he does.

“He hasn’t replied to you either?” she asks and he shakes his head. Morgana makes a tutting noise in the back of her throat.

“They’re probably spending the day naked, and considering the weather I can’t say that I blame them,” she says, idly taking a drink out of her water.

“Should we order food?” Leon asks, wincing at the sound as Morgana sets her drink down with a thud.

Arthur glances at his phone again. He nods. At least bloody Elena had the courtesy to text and tell them she and Lance were nursing their hangovers at home, indulging their still relatively new romance as much as they could outside of the office.

When they all go home his phone is still silent and driving him up the wall. Gwen sits down with a DVD and shoots him glances across the room every now and again when he pulls out reports from PenInc. His distraction gets him nowhere, though and Merlin’s radio silence gets forgotten when Gwen finally has enough of his sulking and distracts him by sitting on his reports and kissing him until the reports end up on the floor along with his shirt and Gwen’s underwear and he fucks her on the table, long and slow with her nails scraping down his back and his hands on her thighs.

There’s nothing else to do but go to bed, after that, where they repeat the performance until his balls feel like prunes and the muscles in his thighs ache. Neither of them can be bothered getting dressed and Arthur’s pretty sure that the guy that delivers their Indian food winks at him as he pays.

 

The afternoon leaves him sated and content and he honestly couldn’t care less when he finally finds a text from Merlin, which he almost thinks might have been Gwen’s plan.

 

 **From: Idiot**  
21:42  
Sorry, phone was  
dead.

 

The idiot’s response isn’t even an answer to any of the questions Arthur had asked demanding where he was, but it proves Merlin’s not been abducted or anything strange he wouldn’t put past his big eared friend.

He doesn’t hear from him again on Monday and there’s radio silence on Tuesday as well, but that doesn’t bother him too much because he seems to spend the entire day locked in meeting after a meeting discussing the advantages of downsizing one of the printing houses in East Camelot and how ‘dismissing’ sixty people is beneficial to anyone but the Shareholders. It leaves him bitter and grouchy and susceptible to pouting, Gwen teases that night. The Wednesday doesn’t go much better, which is why he’s late coming home and straight to bed. It’s not until Thursday that he realises he hasn’t spoken to Merlin at all in nearly a week, and that short sharp text message doesn’t bloody count. It’s only really when Gwen asks him about Merlin that he even realises, and that’s because the idiot had missed his consultation with Lorene at the gallery. He’d missed his two week meeting prior to the opening of his own show and wasn’t answering any calls. He hadn’t answered the door either when Gwen had gone around to his apartment earlier that day. Even more worrying, she hadn’t been able to get in contact with Freya either.

He’s starting to get concerned on his own accord when the facts of the last week start slotting into order since their engagement party, but before it can get any further than a change of clothes and fondling his keys in his pocket, there’s a rattling at the front door and Gwen lets a startled Merlin into the flat.

“Merlin, you know the whole point of a phone is to increase communication, not disappear off the face of the planet and start worrying people,” he says with an arched eyebrow and no intention of telling the idiot that Gwen’s concern had been starting to niggle at the back of his head and worry him as well.

Merlin just looks a little blank, almost… lost. Confused. Arthur stops short, but like a delayed reaction Merlin laughs, a bitter choked ‘Ha!’ like he finds something amusing that Arthur and Gwen can’t see.

“Merlin, are you okay?” Gwen asks and Merlin starts to chuckle softly then, this detached giggle that makes all the hair on the back of Arthur’s neck stand up.

“Freya’s gone,” he says, finally, turning large bloodshot eyes on Arthur.

“You know they never say in movies or books really, just how much it sucks to get a Dear John letter. I mean, they say it. They say it sucks. But they don’t say _how much_ it does. How much it really, really sucks.” He starts to lose his composure then. Cracks form in the façade and Merlin’s shoulders shake before he looks up at Arthur, eyes wide and staring.  
“Freya left me on Saturday. We went home and went to sleep and then she was gone and all I’ve got is a sorry and the deeds to the stupid house. Eighteen months and I don’t even get a goodbye.”

He breaks down then, tears start to crawl down his cheeks and Gwen makes this sound in the back of her throat and startles forward, dragging him down into a hug.

“I can’t find her, I can’t. I’ve looked. I tried everywhere. She’s gone,” Merlin whispers, like some bizarre mantra into Gwen’s hair, his fingers white where he’s clutching at her. Arthur just sort of stands where he is for a moment, feeling the clawing fear of _not knowing what to do_ start ricocheting through him.

It doesn’t go away, it makes him second guess himself at every turn, even as he follows Gwen’s lead and gets Merlin extra blankets for the bed in his old room, making him a cup of tea.

He just feels useless, like a blundering fool getting in the way. Merlin just sort of sits blindly, curled up in on himself, arms wrapped around his legs, but his fingers tapping out a staccato beat because he likes to keep busy. It feels wrong that he doesn’t have a pencil and paper to draw away the tension sitting between his shoulders. The pain that sits there just behind his eyes.

It makes Arthur feel cumbersome and useless.

“It’s not much,” he says, as he crosses the room to sit on the edge of Merlin’s bed, looking down at him blankly.

“But you took all your stuff with you when you left. All I’ve got is lined paper.”

Merlin just blinks as Arthur slides the old exercise book across the bed with the HB pencil on top. Gwen was a painter, everything she had was suited to paints and Arthur barely knew which end of the pencil went on the paper, but it’s enough to make Merlin choke on a half hearted laugh.

“Thanks,” he says and Arthur nods.  
  


*

  
A part of him hopes it will get better after that first night and it must be a bigger part than he originally thought, because when it gets worse, it’s so bad Arthur can’t believe he’d missed it. He can’t believe he let it happen.

He’s the one who lived with Merlin for over two years; he’s the one who should have seen. Only he doesn’t. He doesn’t pay enough attention, or really, he pays too much in all the wrong places.

Freya’s disappearance settles into Merlin like a lead weight, a lead weight that slumps his shoulders and leaves him standing around looking lost, like he doesn’t quite know exactly what to do, doesn’t quite know what he’s missing, let alone find it again.

Morgana tuts and fusses in her strange Morgana-like way, compassionate in a way that she’s never really been with Arthur. But she’s still brusque. Like she’s trying to show she cares but not at all sure what she can really do and whether or not any of it is helping. Gwen goes into a somewhat hapless Caring Mode that mostly manifests in a stocked fridge and wide doe-eyed looks.

Arthur just throws money in as many places as any of them think it is needed and in some ways that it isn’t, because he doesn’t really trust Merlin to remember he has bills to pay given the way he’s suddenly disappeared into his head again. He makes his own solicitors take on Merlin as a client so that they can sort out any problems over Merlin’s apartment. While Merlin’s continued to work at the art supply shop where he’d been since his first term at university, combined with his art shows, he’s a lot better off than Arthur’s ever really thought about. Even with the £100 Merlin paid him in ‘rent’ while he was staying at Arthur’s, he must have managed to save up quite a bit over the time he was there, either that or his father’s inheritance must have been quite a lump sum because all things considered, there’s not really that much over all for Merlin left to pay on his mortgage given he’s a somewhat-starving artist. Freya had helped while they were living together, but she only took what was hers when she left and didn’t ask for anything more in her letter.  
Speaking of which, Merlin doesn’t talk about anything else the letter held, whether it explained anything at all as to why the girl had left him everything, disappearing without a trace. Merlin doesn’t particularly talk about anything in those first few days. He thanks Arthur quietly after they leave Pendragon Towers but that’s pretty much it. Merlin stays quiet and reserved and unconsciously serves to drive his friends insane trying to help. Arthur does anything he can think of to make it all go away and back to normal as quickly as possible. He does everything he can think of, bar actually forcing Merlin to sit down and talk it out.

Which is possibly where everything goes wrong.

Merlin’s apathy has been building almost to the point where Arthur might have asked, but this time Arthur hasn’t seen him slumped over and broken, he hasn’t stumbled across sketch books or hell, even love notes. There’s nothing, and then, a shy step away from instigating raw panic, Merlin seems to flip.

All of a sudden, he’s a ball of frantic energy and it seems no one can find the conviction to stand in its way. Merlin’s always liked distraction, he prefers to keep busy and after the last fortnight, it’s pleasant to have a Merlin that seems once again, more Merlin. So Arthur let’s Merlin be.  
And, apparently, so does pretty much everyone else.

Gwen stops biting her bottom lip and wringing her hands as she unconsciously stares at the picture of her and Merlin that’s been sitting on the living room wall ever since she moved in. She goes back to work and starts pouring over lists of artists and functions and muttering about wall spaces. Morgana interrupts his lunch at work no less than three times in a week, raging about the issues with the little publishing house she has pumping out her obtusely written insight into twelfth century superstition. Merlin stops making everyone nervous and fold back into their normal lives, silently guiding Arthur into following them.

He hasn’t been expecting a miracle; after all, it had been months after his mother’s death that Arthur had found Merlin still hurting. He’s not hoping everything will be fixed straight away, which is why he’s not particularly worried when he stops by and there are too many canvases stacked everywhere and too many cups full of dirty water and paintbrushes. However, there _are_ too many shadows under Merlin’s eyes when Arthur arrives and he smells like acetone. The knees have worn out on his painting jeans and he’s started biting his nails again.

He focuses too much on the obvious, on the canvases and the drawings and the sketchbooks that are scattered around the apartment like discarded magazines, dropped mid reading, but he can’t quite put away the worry that flares up when he takes in the state of the apartment and the real state of Merlin.

He’s packed away what was left of Freya’s things. He’s not keeping her there in that creepy way Arthur was scared he might have, it’s like the woman hasn’t existed. Merlin hoards by nature, he’s sentimental and chaotic and it’s so familiar to how he’d been at Arthur’s flat, from the stacks of books and canvas, hat racks shaped like nude women wrapped in feather boas and gold hotpants – bizarre knickknacks and statues that Arthur’s seen in Merlin’s bedroom or he used to have stacked along the bookshelf in the hallway. The house is suddenly very obviously Merlin. But Freya is still very much there in all the art. In all Merlin’s art. It’s like everything Merlin’s ever wanted to paint suddenly has no more room inside his head and it’s spread out everywhere, canvases drying on the kitchen countertop, on the couch, lined up against the wall like soldiers.

It’s like it was back at uni, those weeks before final works were due and Merlin was up to all hours finishing things, only this time there’s no end to the work. He just keeps going and going like he can’t physically stop.

Arthur really should have sat him down and drawn it out of him, he thinks after that.

Gwen comes home a little anxious a week after that and it doesn’t take much for her to explain this quiet return to her worry. Merlin had been excited about his show before Freya left, and while her and Lorene at the gallery had pushed it back, promising him he could have the space when he was ready, she tells him that Merlin’s been organising behind her back with Lorene for his original slot. He has the work and the older buyer can see no reason not to give it to him.

He knows then he can’t put it off any longer. Arthur’s never liked fighting with Merlin. He likes arguing, he likes teasing and pushing at him because he likes the way Merlin pushes back. Gives as good as he gets, but when they fight, when they _really_ fight Merlin runs and he ignores and they never get anywhere. When they fight it leaves something tight in Arthur’s chest he can’t quite shift and he knows, he _knows_ he’s going to fight with him, really fight even before he’s closed the door on his car and pulled out of the driveway.

He knows because Merlin can be a stubborn ass and this has been his way of coping, except all of a sudden it doesn’t really feel like coping at all.  
Merlin doesn’t answer at the first knock, or the second and by the time Arthur’s ready to let himself into the flat, he hears the unmistakeable sound of Merlin tripping over himself to the door. A moment later his best friend wrenches it open and narrows his gaze on Arthur. It’s a strange look to see on Merlin, his effervescent, idiot best friend, this gaunt, hollowed out grief. It’s there in his eyes and the pallor of his skin and the way he keeps biting his lip.

“Hi,” he croaks and Arthur forgets what he was going to say as he stares at him, leaning against the doorway like he needs the support to stay upright.  
“What do you want, Arthur?” Merlin sighs, then. He sounds tired. He doesn’t want to talk.  
Arthur does.

“We need to talk, Merlin,” he says, almost expecting the refusal. Merlin’s gaze narrows again, his expression dark.

“About what?”

“You.”

“What about me? I’m fine,” Merlin quips, this hollow smile curling his lips for a moment and it’s actually sort of frightening more than soothing.

“You’re not, Merlin. If you were you wouldn’t be pressuring Lorene for your original spot. If you were fine you’d be sleeping instead of working all the bloody time.” He doesn’t mean for it to burst out of him, demanding and authoritative like he is at work, snappish and curt. He knows as soon as he’s spoken that it’s not the right course of action. He can practically see the amiable front of his best friend retreating back into the tired shell in front of him.

“Who on earth said I wasn’t sleeping? I’m _fine_ , Arthur,” Merlin sneers. “So what if I’m working? So what if I can make the original deadline? It was _my_ deadline. I’ve got the work so why can’t I fill the spot?”

Arthur scowls and is a bar second away from pushing the idiot aside and barging into the flat because it’s too late now; this whole trip over here is wasted because Merlin’s not going to tell him a damn thing now and he knows it.

“Merlin, I don’t know whether you’ve looked in the mirror lately, but you’re falling apart, for fuck sake. Look at yourself.”

Merlin’s expression closes off then, his tired slump tenses, his eyes flashing in ire.

“What on earth entitles you to say _anything_ , Arthur?” he snaps. And this is Arthur’s move, Arthur’s chance to turn this back the other way and make right. Except he gets it wrong, again, and he doesn’t have a clue why.

“I’m your friend, Merlin,” he brokers, “I’m worried about you. Gwen is worried about you. Morgana – “

“Oh, _Gwen’s_ worried, so that’s why you’re here,” Merlin snarls, “Well fuck off, Arthur. I’m fine. Alright? I’m _fine_. So fuck off back to, to – just fuck off.”

Arthur’s never had a door slammed in his face before, which is sort of surprising given that he grew up with Morgana. Still, it’s not something he’d ever thought he’d find himself a part of, not concerning Merlin at least.

The studio apartment makes for a rather loud bang.

  
*

  
It doesn’t settle down after that. Gwen tells him the next day that Merlin’s art show is set up for the following Friday and there’s nothing they can do anymore. Merlin’s avoided her every time he’s come into the Gallery, but he’s not backing down. Lorene’s signed the papers and everyone is sticking to the schedule as planned.

It has Arthur worried, but every time he’s worked himself up and made to call or text Merlin he hasn’t received a reply and it’s disconcerting. If it wasn’t for Lorene’s information via Gwen, he may have tried another attempt at going back to the studio and confronting Merlin a second time.

But the image of Merlin’s sneering expression and finite _I’m fine_ serve to follow him around like a little devil sitting on his shoulder and he can’t escape them. Going back to work is the only thing that can make him forget everything and he knows he spends too much time in the office in the days following. He doesn’t actively have to be there. He’s made a point of employing people who know what they’re doing, but it really has very little to do with them when he shows up too early and goes home too late, shoving his brain full of numbers and trying to forget the utter mayhem his personal life has descended into. He needs the control like a lifeline.

Morgana calms his nerves a little when she shows up on the Thursday and drags him out of the office, telling him off for pushing Gwen away and being suspiciously comforting when she tells him that Merlin has been answering _her_ whenever she calls him and that she’s even convinced him twice now to go out for lunch with her. He simply won’t answer any questions to do with his show or to do with Freya. Every time she’s brought it up, no matter how subtle, he simply locks down and glares, holding his wine glass and not saying a thing until she’s apologised and changed the subject.

It’s reassuring that one of them can somehow still get him to talk, but at the same time it’s heartbreaking that it’s not _him_. But he can understand – well, it’s not really understanding… But he knows the reasons why Merlin can’t stand him or Gwen and while it kills him, he lets it go.

Work isn’t as distracting as Arthur would like it to be after that, the last time Merlin was this frantic was when he got the show at the Avalon and it had been Morgana who had calmed the idiot back to reality and conventional sense.

This time it’s Morgana again and Arthur feels a stupid little betrayal of his friendship that he’s not the one who can help with this anymore. He’d helped after Merlin’s mother died, and after he’d won DestinCity and was dithering over his self-confidence. From that point he’s done nothing and that was such a long time ago now…  
What use is he?

He goes home that night and Gwen just takes one look at him and seems to understand everything. She strokes his face and never breaks eye contact when she draws it out of him and he’s never been more thankful that he has her. He’s never really been brilliant at dealing with his emotions and a fit of pique has him telling them to Gwen, his sweet, empathetic, beautiful Gwen, who kisses him and holds him and talks softly in his ear.

“This isn’t your fault, Arthur. You can’t fix everything for him. You can just be there. That’s what he needs. He needs you to be there for him.”

Which doesn’t feel like enough in the slightest when he sees the sloppy way Merlin’s holding himself together when they get to the gallery. The walls are covered in canvases that have Freya littered through them like a melody. She never particularly takes _shape_ , but Arthur can see her. He can see her in the silhouettes, in the embracing figures, the lovers and the dreamers. The images of people that aren’t faces Arthur knows, but their expressions he does, stories from everyone’s history – Leon’s guarded confidence, Morgana’s glinting smirk and terminable grace, Gwen’s soft smile and crinkled eyes, Lance’s courtesy, even Elena’s glittering grin and fragile honesty – they’re all there, wrapped up in the shy novice of Freya: her large eyes, her compassion, her lingering fingers, tiny hands and pleasant giggle. She’s an undertone to everything. Keeps it all together, and there’s Merlin in the centre of the room, looking worn and a little unhinged.

Arthur wants to drag him away and shut him off from the outside world where nothing can make him look like that anymore. For a moment he’s struck by his sharp possessiveness, but it gives way to more pressing concern. It doesn’t entirely leave though.

Lorene stands by Merlin’s side, one hand on his back to keep him steady and he actually looks like he needs it there to keep him upright. He’s pale but there’s a high streak of colour along his cheeks and it doesn’t take Arthur long to realise that Merlin’s drunk.

When they arrive the showing hasn’t been open for half an hour yet, and already the idiot is drunk.

Arthur’s concern takes another step forward.

It takes them longer to get Merlin on their own than he’d like. This is, after all, Merlin’s night and despite Arthur’s concerns, the idiot isn’t as drunk as he appears because he seems to be able to charm enough patrons into smiles and handshakes and Arthur would have to be stupid not to notice each time Lorene nods at one of her other assistants - Mandy? He can never remember – every few conversations and how a tiny little ‘sold’ sticker would magically appear next to yet another of the canvases around the room.

It’s a good night for Merlin, people seem to be enjoying themselves, though Arthur can’t shift the concern and guilt that’s swimming around in his veins. He ignores Elena and Lance when they arrive, and he can feel Morgana glare at him every time he ignores one of the group trying to prompt him into conversation. He can’t focus on anything else though. The stupid little canapés taste like ash in his mouth and he doesn’t go anywhere near the booze after his first flute of champagne because it just serves to make him feel ill and he can’t stand it. He can barely stand anything.

Still, the booze might have made dealing with Merlin a bit easier, because he’s not really prepared in the slightest when he finally gets his chance to talk to him.

Gwen smiles and murmurs her congratulations, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek before she sort of looks at Arthur askance and mumbles an excuse and drags the others away.  
Then it’s just him and Merlin. The idiot is still sort of swaying. He’s too pale and the makeup he’s wearing (no doubt on behalf of either Morgana or Lorene) to hide the dark shadows under his eyes doesn’t do as good a job as the intended probably hoped. He looks horrible and all it does is serve Arthur with another round of his brain hissing _I’m fine_ at him.

“Congratulations,” he says, feeling awkward and out of place. “Looks like you’ve sold most of them.”

“Lorene’s dealing with that.”

“Yes, I imagine you can barely focus on anything more than staying upright.” And there it is, there’s his mouth, shooting off. He’d wondered where that had gone.  
Merlin’s expression narrows.

“What does that mean?”

“What do you think it means, Merlin? How much have you had to drink?”

“What does that have anything to do with – “

“A lot more than it should if I’m asking the question, _Mer_ lin.”

Merlin snarls. Honest to god _snarls._

“It’s my show, Arthur – “

“And what? You’ll get drunk and embarrass yourself if you want to? Did you _look_ at yourself in the mirror before you came out here, Merlin? Because you look like you’re going to fall down.”

“I’m _fine._ ”

“That is the furthest from the truth that you could get your hands on, Merlin. You’re a wreck.”

“Yet here I am, Arthur. I’m right here, selling painting after fucking painting, aren’t I. Isn’t that what you told me once? That I should _sell myself_? Well here I am, Pendragon. Selling everything I’ve got left because the rest of it’s fucking _gone. She’s_ fucking gone. So yeah, I’ll have a bloody drink if I want to. Maybe you should have a few yourself and piss off.”

Arthur just feels hollow after that; as he watches Merlin scowl at him and weave through the crowd like all he wants to do is get away. After that, Arthur can’t stay. He can’t deal with the stuffy room or the people or the feeling of roiling, harrowing discontent he can feel coming off Merlin. The guilt that he’s probably just made a bad thing even worse. He doesn’t know what to do, how to stop it and he really doesn’t want to make anything any worse than he already has. So he does what he and Merlin have perfected over the years; avoid each other when they don’t know what to do.

It’s not something he’s proud of once he’s sitting at home in bed, staring at the wall and pretending he can hear the sound of his wristwatch ticking. Gwen’s an hour and a half behind him and he closes his eyes and listens to her letting herself back into the flat and taking off her shoes and coat. He listens to her pad through the lounge towards the bedroom and it’s only when he hears her open the door that he opens his eyes.

“There you are,” she says with a soft smile. She’s placating him. He lets her.

“Hey there yourself, beautiful,” he replies and enjoys for a moment the way she still continues to blush every time he says something of the like.

“How was the end?”

“Not so bad. Merlin only stayed about twenty minutes after you. He managed to sell sixteen of the twenty, so it was good for him financially, anyway. Really good. Lorene was pleased.”

“How was Merlin?”

“Drunk,” she says sadly, leaning into him, her skin hot against his own as he runs his fingers over her chest and up around her neck to help her take off her necklaces. “Really drunk.”

“I’ll go check on him tomorrow. See if I can get something out of him.” _Apologise._

“It’s like he’s hiding something, Arthur,” she says sadly. “He doesn’t hole himself away like this.”

“I know.”

“I wish he’d talk to me but it’s like he can’t stand to look at me. It’s like every time he does he sees that last night they had and oh god, Arthur, it was our _engagement party._ ”

He wraps his arms tight around her then and holds her close as she shudders. Her breath hitches as she cries and he doesn’t know what to do but hold her. Hold her until she knows deep down he always will, he’ll hold her together if that’s what she needs. If she’s ever falling apart.

He holds her and wishes he could work that same feeling on Merlin, his idiot best friend who’s coming apart before their eyes.

Arthur wakes up before Gwen the next morning and he stays exactly as he is, waiting out the clock and simply embracing the feel of her wrapped around him, their feet entwined and her breathing slowly against his neck. She’s half wrapped around his chest and in the dim light seeping through the curtains he watches the faint glint of her engagement ring. They haven’t set a date, or at least, they haven’t got any further than they had in the eight weeks between when he’d asked her and when they’d had their party. Sometime in the spring, they’d wanted. But whether that happens now he doesn’t know. There’s time. There’s still six months between now and then and he loves her. He doesn’t want to wait, that much has settled into him stronger than anything else. His mother died so young and if anything, Freya’s sudden disappearance has only regimented that fixture in his head. He wants to marry Gwen, he wants it soon and he wants to be safe and assured that they have forever together. He wants to look at her and know that he’s doing everything to give her everything in life that she’ll ever want.

Gradually he feels her breathing change and then she stirs but he stays where he is until she rolls over and blinks the sleep from her eyes. He leans down and kisses her awake and they stay in bed simply together for far longer than Arthur would normally have called necessary, even on a Sunday where there’s nothing either of them have to do.  
Except of course, tackle Merlin.

It’s after twelve before Arthur finds himself pulling up outside the block of studio apartments and cautiously making his way up to the door. Merlin doesn’t answer when Arthur knocks the first time or the second and it feels like a betrayal of trust when he unlocks the door with his spare key.

The place is eerily quiet and it makes all the hair on the back of Arthur’s neck stand up almost immediately as he walks into the centre of the room and starts to look around. It’s like Merlin’s fallen off the face of the planet, it’s so quiet and it sets off this sense of anxiety deep in Arthur’s stomach he can’t get rid of.

There are still canvases set up on every spare space, lines of old water dishes full of paint brushes soaking in the alternating gaps along the kitchenette. However, there’s a gathering of familiar clear bottles lined up around the recycling bin that catches Arthur’s eye and has his anxiety reaching another new height.

The entire time he’s known Merlin the idiot has been somewhat of a lightweight. All he needs are two well-placed drinks and he can be as stupid as he likes all night. But when he drinks, he drinks hard and can put away a surprising amount, but he always pays for it and he never drinks often enough in such determination to put any mind to it. But even despite how trashed Merlin was the night before, there’s a real worry settling inside Arthur at the sight of the four, litre bottles of gin; the cheap nasty Tesco bottles of gin around the recycling bin.

Even back in university there would have been no chance of Merlin getting through that many bottles of liquor in the timeframe between Freya and now, and they all don’t drink half as much as they did then. But Merlin had clearly been drinking with a vengeance before the art show and after Arthur had left as well and that just sort of steals into Arthur’s brain and whispers that maybe Merlin’s been drinking more than anyone’s realised.

“Merlin?” he calls setting the bottle back down and heading straight for the stairs. There’s no answer, not that he was expecting any, but his idiot friend’s sudden seclusion makes a lot more sense.

“Merlin?” he shouts again as he reaches he landing but there’s still no reply. The bed is a tousled mess that’s clearly not been made in weeks, let alone a change of sheets. Arthur doubts anything has been done since Gwen came over while they were dealing with the deeds to the flat.

There are shoes and clothes thrown around the room, Arthur’s stomach jolts when he spies another telling clear bottle that’s mostly empty on the bedside table. There’s charcoal and graphite pencils broken everywhere and ground into the carpet.

The door of the bathroom is open and Arthur feels a sharp paralysing moment of terror when he sees a pale foot laid out on the tiles.

Then it all hits home.

“Merlin!” he shouts bursting into the room and scrambling over his friend. Merlin’s always been skin and bones but as Arthur pulls him up off the tiles, he’s cold and frail and the sound of him groaning as Arthur pulls him up and against his chest, away from the toilet bowl and his half clutched bottle of god knows fucking what – it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

He’s wearing the shirt from the night before, damp with sweat, his hair matted to his head and his lips are dry and chapped. It’s disgusting and terrifying.

Arthur hears someone choking and briefly realises it’s him as he pats Merlin’s cheek, trying to stop himself from all out slapping the dumb idiot to bring him round.

“Merlin, Merlin come on, buddy. Open your eyes. Please, Merlin, please – “ it’s disturbing, the sound of his own voice pleading, but Merlin stirs and Merlin’s not the only one crying all of a sudden when he blinks some coherency into his vision.

“For fuck sake, Merlin,” Arthur swears quietly under his breath as he holds Merlin tight against his chest and Merlin actually starts to hold back. He gasps, loud and sharp, like a drowning man, he drags one arm up and clutches to the front of Arthur’s shirt and he cries.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Merlin starts muttering, and the sound of his best friend so utterly distraught and broken down makes Arthur feel as useless and bare as he’s ever felt in his entire life. There’s nothing that ever happened to him that’s worse than the feel of Merlin shaking in his arms and crying like he’s going to come apart. There’s nothing worse than knowing he’s done nothing to really stop them getting this far. He’s done fuck all to avoid this point and even now that they’re here, he still hasn’t a fucking clue. He hasn’t had a fucking clue since Merlin broke down in his living room nearly four days after he went to sleep and woke up to a note from his girlfriend of a year and a half and an empty apartment.

He doesn’t know how to make any of it better, so he just waits, he waits it out and he holds him, the same way he did with Gwen. Somehow, this time, it doesn’t feel like enough.  
It takes its time but gradually Merlin’s shoulders stop shaking and he stops holding so tightly onto the front of Arthur’s shirt.

Gradually, he pulls back and lets Arthur guide him into sitting upright. It takes longer still before he flickers his gaze up to meet Arthur’s, but even when he does, he looks away almost immediately and tears start to slide back down his cheeks again.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?” Arthur manages to ask. His voice doesn’t sound like his own, but he doesn’t feel entirely much like himself either, so he lets it slide.  
“I couldn’t. It’s not. It’s not bad. I had it under control. I did, I just – Last night was different. I overdid it. I overdid it.”

He starts to hiccup and Arthur starts forward to hold him again, but then he stops himself. He holds back and just watches as Merlin wraps his arms around himself.

That hollows Arthur out. Everything swirling around inside his head just evaporates in the space of Merlin’s revelation. The truth that settles is deep and unyielding in Arthur’s gut; this is a problem. This is not something simple. He’s let Merlin down and he hasn’t noticed because those words shouldn’t mean what they do. _It’s not bad_ shouldn’t mean it’s complete opposite, because four bottles of gin is bad, and passing out in the bathroom for hours is bad and the way Merlin’s still shaking and red eyed and smelling like sweat and booze and vomit is _bad_.

It’s bad and it’s at a point where it’s obvious that he should have been able to stop it. Merlin had been alone in this, Arthur had been there, throwing money where money needed to be thrown but he’d never _asked_ if _Merlin_ was okay. Merlin had always made sure that Arthur knew he was there for him, he’d always been able to make Arthur know every time that he’d do whatever it took to make it okay. What had he done for Merlin in turn? He’d tried, hell he’d _tried_ , but he’d walked around not knowing what to say, what to do. How to act. He’d thrown money and solicitors at him, he’d stood by in silence because _he_ was always horrible at expressing himself and Merlin had built his wall higher. He had stood back and given Merlin space because he didn’t know what to say or do to help, to make things better. He didn’t know and he’d brought them to this.  
But the fact still remains, they’re here and he _still_ has no idea how to help, how to fix it. He pulls Merlin back to his chest and he holds him, he wraps his arms around him and he holds him.

“We’ll figure this out,” he says. “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry. We’ll figure this out.”

Merlin just holds onto the front of Arthur’s shirt again and cries. Neither one of them moves for a long time and when they do it’s like they’ve both exhausted everything that they have. There’s no fighting or swearing or resistance of any kind when he pulls Merlin upright and sets him on the couch while he packs a bag. Merlin doesn’t ask where they’re going, he probably knows already. There’s only one place Arthur can think of that he has any chance of helping in the slightest and that’s the bedroom back at the flat. It’s where Merlin belongs, where he’s always belonged as far as Arthur’s concerned. Merlin doesn’t argue. He follows Arthur’s instructions as they close up the apartment and head back to the flat. Gwen and Morgana are sitting on the couch talking quietly when they get back. They both go silent as Arthur steers Merlin through the door and into the bathroom. They both look a mess, of that he’s sure, but he also knows he has nothing on Merlin. He sets out a clean set of clothes and a towel and Merlin just nods and waits until he’s closed the door behind him before he gets up off the toilet. Arthur doesn’t leave the hallway until he hears the running of the shower and it’s only then that he drags himself back to the lounge room. Gwen takes one look at him and wraps her arms around him. He holds her back like she’s going to disappear if he lets go.

“What happened?” it’s Morgana who breaks the silence and even as hesitant as her voice is it still shatters it like a hammer.

“He, er,” his voice is cracked and it takes him a moment to realise he hasn’t said anything since he spent god knows how long apologising to Merlin over and over again.  
He clears his throat and lets Gwen drag him over to the couch.

“He’s been drinking. Too much. Way too much.” He stops, trying to collect himself, trying to banish the image of Merlin slumped on the floor around the toilet bowl out of his mind. It’s harder than he’d feared.

“He needs to stop. I found him passed out in the bathroom. He’d been there since last night. He needs to stop.”

Gwen’s eyes are impossibly large and glassy. She’s holding onto his hand tighter than he remembers her ever doing before.

“We’ll figure something out,” Morgana says softly. It’s too clinical.

“We need to help him. He needs help.”

“Clearly we’ve done a smashing job of it so far, Arthur. She’s been gone a month, you know. None of us noticed.”

“Don’t you think I realise that? Don’t you think I _know_? I thought he was okay. I looked him in the face and ignored all the signs because _I_ wanted him to be okay, Morgana, instead of making sure that he _was_.”

“You’re not the only one who failed him, Arthur. Don’t be so selfish,” Morgana snarls and it’s almost enough to shut him up. Almost.

“Then how did we all not notice? How did we all miss it? I’m meant to be his best friend, Morgana. I’m meant to _know_.”

“You don’t have a sixth sense, Arthur.”

“Well I damn well should have! You didn’t see him earlier, Morgana. I thought he was fucking _dead_. You have no idea how that felt.”

“You think none of us don’t feel guilty for letting it get that far, Arthur? I took him out, Arthur. I sat and ate lunch with him. I _bought_ him fucking glasses of wine because I thought it would help loosen his tongue, so don’t you dare play the martyr act that this has been hardest on _you_ –“

Arthur’s about to open his mouth and start shouting back when there’s a voice on the other side of the room.

“Please don’t fight.”

Merlin’s voice cuts the room in half and banishes it to silence. Arthur stops and Morgana shuts her mouth entirely. He still looks worn and tired as he stands in clothes that seem to hang on him without form even though they’re his own.

“Please. Just, don’t. I don’t want to make you angry or scared. I’m sorry, I truly am.”

“Oh, Sweetie, you don’t need to be sorry – “ Gwen starts but Merlin stops her, his voice low and scratchy, like his voice box had been dragged across gravel.

“Merlin,” Arthur says and Merlin startles, fixing his large keening eyes on Arthur.

Gwen’s fingers are tight in his as Arthur meets Merlin’s gaze and tries not to squirm as he fights to find something to say, something that can fix this. Surely he can find something that will fix this. Morgana ignores him and stands up. Arthur watches as she walks over and just wraps her arms around Merlin and holds him. It takes him a moment but he brings his hands up to grasp onto her and his fingers are white with the strain and it’s like that moment in Merlin’s bathroom.

Arthur has to look away.

It takes far longer to pull away than anyone will ever speak of.

When Morgana finally does she takes Merlin by the hand and leads him over to the couch, setting him down. She brushes his wet fringe off his forehead and smiles at him.  
“We’ll figure this out, Merlin. I promise,“ she says. Merlin turns his wide, glassy eyes on her.

“I don’t think I can. Not here,” he croaks and Arthur’s world comes to a standstill.

“I need to go away for a while. I, I can’t think here. I need – I need to go home.”

That’s perhaps the hardest part of it all, right then, in that moment, those words out of Merlin’s mouth. The truth – that Camelot is no longer home, that this _flat_ is no longer home; that _they_ are no longer enough to help him, help fix him and make him happy again.

What’s worse still, is that no one stops him and tells him otherwise.

  
*

He feels Merlin’s absence after the dreadful two days he spent back in his old bedroom. For some reason it’s even worse in the flat than it is anywhere else even though Merlin’s left Camelot for Ealdor with no real return date. Will took Merlin back to his apartment after he showed up on Arthur’s doorstep at ten o’clock in the morning to collect anything Merlin wanted to take and if the back of Merlin’s little car is anything to go by, he took quite a lot of his art materials to keep him occupied. After the last month of frantic work for his show, Arthur guesses it’s probably for the best that he still has something familiar to keep him grounded.

Still, the whole experience hurts. It hurts as he shakes Will’s hand and grudgingly implores that he does _whatever is necessary to make him happy again_ and to _damn well call him if Merlin ever needs him, day or night, regardless of whether the idiot actually says the words or not_. He doesn’t expect a call, especially after the bone crushing way Will had clenched his hand and scowled at him, snarling softly so Merlin couldn’t hear from where he was slumped in his car.

“If this is your fault, Pendragon,” he says, glaring like he wanted to set Arthur on fire and intent to blame him regardless of whose fault it is. Arthur would have bitten back if he didn’t blame himself as well.

He’s only met Will on several occasions over the years, the small town prick has come down for Merlin’s birthday once or twice since that art show at the Avalon, the second time gloriously ending in a bit of a brawl between the two of them that Arthur’s not particularly proud of himself for. Will’s come down for a weekend or so just to see Merlin every now and again and following the fight, well, Arthur hadn’t really been invited, which wasn’t something he actually felt bad about. This time he does. This time it fucking hurts that he has to leave Merlin to someone he’s seen maybe ten times or so in the last two years. This time is a particular sore point, especially because he can’t seem to get the image of Merlin breaking down in the doorway out of his head, Will’s arms wrapped around him and how Arthur had just stood in the damn hallway and watched. It circulates in his brain for days after Merlin leaves, leaving them behind with a tentative hug for the girls and a small uneven smile for Arthur. Will texts when they get back to Ealdor, but that’s it. Merlin’s gone and shut himself away from them all and they’re all walking around pretending it’s going to help. Hoping it’s going to help.

It feels sort of useless, going through the motions, but Arthur doesn’t quite know what else to do and neither does anyone else it seems. His second Assistant at PenInc is still an idiot, which is sort of soothing, Helen is still a warhorse and has kept the reigns well in grasp during Arthur’s continual absences, which he sort of feels sorry about. It is his company, after all, but Helen’s known him his entire life and after he comes back and thanks her with the expensive wine he remembered his father always bought her for Christmas and the promise she can have as many days off as she wants, she just sort of looks at him, pats his cheek and tells him that it’s all okay. She doesn’t say it out loud, but she’s said it enough when he was growing up hating his father, that family came first and the company could stuff itself if that’s what happened. Learn from her mistakes. He doesn’t need to hear it again; he can see it written all over her face.

Still, he gets his idiot Second Assistant to book her a spa retreat anyway and pretends she might go. She might. Still, he doesn’t push it.

At home Gwen’s started tentatively looking at wedding magazines again, which is both terrifying for him and strangely comforting, knowing that despite everything they still have something to look forward to. That fact is enough to get the awkwardness the whole group finds with both Merlin and Freya’s empty spots at the pub to recede a little. The arguing about _we’re not talking about this here, Morgana_ is enough to fill the quiet left by Merlin’s absence. Morgana once again finds great joy in provoking him, which is fun, especially because Elena starts to join in as well, right up until the pair of them start provoking him by making advances on both Leon and Lance in public. Walking in to find your old girlfriend snogging your soon-to-be-wife’s ex boyfriend or your old school friend with his hands up your sisters shirt isn’t something Arthur likes at all, it makes for a couple of stilted Fridays, but he’s still secretly glad that things haven’t completely stopped just because Merlin is missing.

He’s glad for Lance and Elena, that they’ve finally sorted themselves out after months and months of dancing around each other uselessly. But at heart he’s gladder still that Morgana’s found someone, because while he’d never experienced firsthand watching her make out with her other short-term beau’s, he’s never seen her quite as happy with Alvarr or Cenred or Algain as she is with Leon, and beyond that, he _knows_ Leon. He knows the man’s pride and his loyalty and his honour. She could do much worse. But it doesn’t stop him from firmly deciding he’s actually going to see if Second Assistant George can hire him a hit man if Leon ever breaks her heart. The over protective decision makes him feel better for a moment until he wonders whether or not he’s overdoing it in the wake of not having Merlin around to worry about. He doesn’t usually worry particularly about Morgana. She’s always been able to protect herself better than he ever has. Everything she’s done she’s done of her own volition almost since the moment she decided she was moving out of home.

Still, the nights at the pub don’t go on as long as they used to. Whether it’s the missing members in the conversation that cuts it short or some other reason, Arthur’s secretly glad either way. The whole establishment makes him uncomfortable in a way it hasn’t before. While he misses Merlin he can’t help but flinch every time he thinks about him while they’re sitting in their corner booth and he remembers Merlin picking up a glass and then all he can really think about is how he never _noticed._

It always follows him home afterwards and he usually finds himself staring at the ceiling well into Saturday, playing with Gwen’s hair and trying, in vain, to get to sleep. His brain buzzing with the memories of that night and how the night Freya left they’d been teasing Merlin about being such a lightweight. The whole time Arthur’s known him; Merlin has always been a lightweight. Three pints and he’s singing karaoke into 3am. Put him on vodka and he’ll climb trees if anyone puts the idea in his head and he can’t quite get past the fact he didn’t notice.

It gets worse before it gets better and it reaches a point as they creep into the third week since Merlin left and he’s starting to entertain Gwen’s worried concern that maybe he should go to the doctor about sleeping pills or something, when it finally breaks.

Merlin calls him.

He’s at work, fuming about George’s inability to let him breathe because the man must be a robot for all his tact, when the phone rings. He’s about to be short and curt with the poor bastard on the other end because the _damn things been ringing all day and he’d barely slept at all the night before and Gwen had cautiously asked if he had time to come and look at wedding cakes with her and he’d snapped at her that he’d find the time, and dammit, she didn’t deserve that_ \- He’s contemplating having flowers delivered to her to apologise when everything leaves his head the second he hears his name down the phone line.

“ _Arthur? Is this a bad time?_ ” Merlin asks and it’s such a shock to hear the idiot’s voice he’s about to drop the phone before it clicks and he’s clinging to it with all his bloody might then.

“For you, Merlin? It’s always a bad time, but there’s plenty of it.”

“ _You sound like you’re having a bad day._ ”

“It’s horrendous. The phone wont stop ringing.”

“ _Don’t you have assistants for that?_ ”

“Yes, but unfortunately both of them seem to think I should be doing my job.”

“ _Eugh, what sort of assistants are they? You do know you’re the boss, Arthur. You could fire them. Well, maybe not Helen._ ”

“Helen runs this company. I couldn’t get rid of her if I tried. The whole thing would come down around me in two days. She’d make sure of it.”

“ _I’m sure._ ”

There’s a beat of silence and Arthur can hear him breathing on the other end; he can almost see his face, the half-smile teasing his lips as he cradles the phone in one hand and scratches his head with the other.

“You sound happier.” He doesn’t really have control over the words but he doesn’t regret saying them either.

“ _I am._ ”

“Good. So Ealdor’s treating you well then?”

“ _Yeah. It’s nice being back. Slower up here. Everything’s so much slower. It’s easy to catch your breath. I needed that._ ”

“Good.” Now it’s awkward, because he hasn’t said anything about coming back yet, and Arthur doesn’t want to ask. Arthur said when Merlin left that he’d leave him be if that’s what he wanted. That he’d give him all the time in the world as long as it _helped_. It’s taken Merlin this long to call him, but he sounds collected and he sounds _sober_ and he sounds almost calm and happy and that’s enough, because that’s more than Arthur and Camelot could give him.

“How’s Will?”

He laughs then and Arthur can imagine his face as he grins.

“ _Jealous. He’s gone back to work at the hardware shop. Wishes he could lay about like me all day._ ”

“I think everyone would prefer to lay about like you all day and pretend it’s work.”

“ _Hey, it is work. I made a mint off that last showing._ ”

“I suppose you did.”

“ _Enough for a holiday._ ”

“I don’t really think Ealdor counts as a holiday, Merlin. Do they even have indoor plumbing there?”

“ _Oi! You tosser, stay away from insulting my childhood home._ ”

“I’m sorry you had to grow up in such desolate climate, Merlin. Tell me, did you at least have shoes? Tell me you had shoes, Merlin.”

“ _I’m gonna hang up on you in a minute_.”

“You wouldn’t dare. I’m your connection to civilisation.”

“ _If I want civilised I’ll talk to Morgana, thank you._ ”

“Merlin,” Arthur chides, feeling this bubbling sort of warmth in his chest. This old nostalgia rising up.  
“Did you call me first?”

“ _Well I won’t next time, you arrogant sod,_ ” he says in return and Arthur knows the idiot doesn’t remember, but _dammit_ he does and oh man, it’s like a breath of fresh air. He doesn’t know when Merlin’s coming back. Merlin doesn’t know when he’s coming back – but by god, he’s going to be okay.

It gets better after that.

He makes a point of meeting Gwen at the gallery after that with an arm full of white roses that he remembers her looking at in a wedding catalogue. He lets her talk him into anything she wants, anything at all. He knows throwing money isn’t going to fix anything, he’s neglected her, he knows it and he knows that she thinks she understands, but he doesn’t like that at all. She’s going to be his wife; he loves her and it hurts to think that maybe he’d let her forget that while he was worrying about Merlin.

It’s the most beautiful thing in the world, her smile, when he gets George to make a few appropriate phone calls and he completely abuses his privileges as a snobbish rich bastard and has Camelot Royal Jewellery and Gems stay open late for a private showing so that they can pick out their wedding bands. He feels stupid after he does it, its something people in movies do, but it makes her smile and it makes Elena punch him and call him a soppy bastard and it makes Morgana smirk and nod appreciatively. She doesn’t say a word to him about it, even though he’s been terrified of her potentially endless teasing. It’s nice, though, feeling Gwen’s giddy shaking as he rests his hand against her lower back, how she kisses him. How bright her eyes are, the crinkles showing at the corners. They’re getting married and it’s wonderful to have that terrified excitement back after so long of the dampening worry.

Things get unnecessarily hectic once they set a date, which he doesn’t particularly understand, because really, it’s still a good six months away, he tells (complains, Arthur, complains) Merlin over the next few phone calls he gets. They’re always at work, which gives him a pleasant excuse to do nothing and not even expect retribution from Helen because she _knows_ Merlin and as little as she shows emotion, Arthur knows she cares about the idiot who used to show up with coffee and muffins and would perch on her desk and natter away about anything that had crossed his mind, knowing it would irk both Arthur and George, and then proceed to amuse Arthur the more flustered his Second Assistant would get.

He misses that, and tells Merlin, which just earns him a laugh and an hour later, a delivery from his favourite coffee shop with a coffee for all three of them and muffins, because as much as Merlin finds George as irritating as Arthur does, he’s a nice person at heart and doesn’t play favourites. The idiot would buy coffee for the entire building if he could.

  
*

It’s three months after Freya’s disappearance that Merlin comes back from Ealdor. He doesn’t tell Arthur he’s coming back in his last phone call; in fact he makes no effort to inform anyone at all. Instead he just shows up on Arthur’s doorstep on the Thursday night after he’s finished work and smiles like an absolute idiot when Gwen opens the door and shrieks before hugging the life out of him. Arthur doesn’t know what on earth’s going on as he comes running in from the bedroom in his boxers. It’s unnerving, seeing the idiot again, and it has nothing about his own state of undress. Merlin laughs at him until Arthur crosses the room and hugs him just as hard as Gwen had, hard enough to cut Merlin’s laughter off with a small squeak. Even so, Merlin hugs him back just as hard and he feels so warm and present that Arthur doesn’t quite know what to do. It all mellows out after that when Merlin pulls away and tells him to go and get dressed because he’ll give the neighbours a heart attack even though they’re the only flat on this floor and its all back to normal. Still, when he comes back Arthur does a whole lot of uncomfortable staring he’s not ashamed of in the slightest. It’s been long enough that there’s flesh back on Merlin’s bones and there’s some semblance of a light in his eyes again that it makes Arthur want to sing and dance, even though it wasn’t him who’s put it there. He spends that first night just drinking him in and listening to him talk, feeling out of place. Like it’s all a dream.

Thankfully it doesn’t disappear between his fingers.

Merlin smiles that night, shy and hesitant and it’s not a smile that Arthur’s seen before. It doesn’t belong in his catalogue of Merlin’s happiness. Instead it feels secretive and sad and it leaves Arthur feeling awkward, which he bolsters by trying to be authoritative with the pair of them.

Merlin just watches him and Gwen stops him making a third cup of tea for the night by walking up behind him and taking his hands off the kettle. Merlin follows each moment; his eyes fixated until the flat is quiet but for the soft rumble of the kettle dying down.

“I owe the pair of you an apology,” Merlin says then, like dropping a bomb into conversation, but it’s the bomb they’ve been avoiding all night. They’ve danced around the subject since the moment Merlin set foot in the living room. They’ve been talking about Will and Ealdor, but they’ve carefully avoided the reason why Merlin had been there, Freya, and that catastrophic night at the gallery and the mid afternoon Arthur spent several seconds terrified that his best friend had somehow managed to drink himself to death.

“Oh Merlin- “ Gwen starts, like she always does, ready to cut him off and tell him he _doesn’t need to, we understand_ but Merlin is looking at Arthur and Arthur knows this is as much for Merlin as it is for him. For them. This is closure, this is an apology this is an understanding. A sharing.

They need this.

“Please, Gwen,” Merlin says softly and Gwen falls silent, her hand reaching for Arthurs and he gives it a gentle squeeze for her.

“I owe the pair of you an apology and an explanation for how I acted after Freya left. I was horrible, to all of you, but you two especially. I cut you out, I pushed you away and for that I’m sorry. I just felt so alone even when there was everyone in the room. All I could think about was that we were in your house that night. We were on your couch, we were happy and I thought it was going to last forever. And then she was gone and you two were – it was your engagement party. You’re getting married and all of a sudden I was alone and I, I resented you for that. And it was like without Freya there was this bridge between me and everyone else. We could just be and it was more than enough and then she just _left_. And everyone kept apologising and they all kept staring at me. You all just kept _staring_ and nothing was enough. Nothing.”  
Merlin’s voice croaks by the end of his confession and Gwen’s hand is tight in Arthur’s, her nails digging into his skin, but he holds on just as tight, like he doesn’t want to let her go. Merlin just smiles then, this contorted, sad thing like he knows how awkward and horrible this is. Like ‘isn’t this sad creature amusing?’

Gwen makes a frustrated noise in the back of her throat then and drops Arthur’s hand and lurches, dragging Merlin into a fierce hug that lasts a long time, this almost desperate thing and if Arthur sees the way Merlin clings back then it’s nothing he’s ever going to bring up because he sort of wants to cling to Merlin much the same way Merlin is clinging to Gwen.

“Merlin – “ Gwen murmurs when they break apart and her eyes are glistening with tears. Merlin’s cheeks are flushed but he still looks… contrite.

“I’m so sorry, I hurt you. I was selfish and… lost. I didn’t know how to make it stop hurting and drinking made it all go away. A part of me knew it was wrong, but I knew you’d worry if you knew. So I made sure you didn’t. I was careful. Or, at least I tried to be. A part of me didn’t want you to notice.”

“I’m sorry we didn’t,’ Gwen murmurs, and isn’t that an understatement.

“I don’t cope very well. I never have. You’ve all known me long enough to know that. Freya –“ his voice cracks and Arthur’s heart goes out to him. “Freya was special to me. I loved her. She made me feel like no woman ever had in my life. She was my exception and I gave so much to her that losing her felt like I’d lost everything I gave. And I couldn’t say a thing. I couldn’t find the words and everyone just kept looking at me, telling me how hard it must be and how if it was them they’d hate her for just up and leaving and I couldn’t do that. Everyone kept saying it would get better but I couldn’t figure out how. Drinking made it easier. It made everything all muddled and I could forget it. I’m so sorry I pushed you all away. I truly am. I just… didn’t know what else to do.”

It’s always been hard to begrudge Merlin. He’s like an animal, with his big eyes yearning for your approval and his ears sticking out and his feet tripping him up. He’s compassionate and hilarious and ridiculous and it’s too hard to try and be angry with him, if anything, his confession just serves to make Arthur feel guilty again, because he’s come to the same conclusions Arthur had, that he couldn’t figure out how to tell anyone – couldn’t tell _him_ – that something was wrong, and really, it shouldn’t have come around to Merlin having to say anything. Arthur should have known, Merlin had felt alone because they had failed him. _Arthur_ had failed him.

He learns that night that Will came back from Ealdor with Merlin for the first three days and Arthur suffers a moment where he almost wants to hug the small town wanker when he drops Merlin home that night, because he’d been so damn afraid, afraid there was nothing any of them could do and Will had done it. He wants to do anything Will asks of him because Merlin just hadn’t been eating and he hadn’t been sleeping and he’d been falling apart and no one had been help in the slightest, no one had noticed just how bad a job they’d been doing. But Will had just looked a little smug when he met Merlin at the door and Arthur had gone back to quietly finding everything about the man aggravating.  
It’s a tiny thing though, in the face of having Merlin back, and the best part of it all is that he comes back with a purpose. While the smiles aren’t quite there yet, there’s a lightness to his shoulders that’s soothing, reassuring. It all goes on long enough that Arthur only worries a little, three weeks later when Merlin asks if he can plus one to the wedding.  
But to begin with it still stops Arthur short.

“Sure,” he nods almost immediately, trying not to look dumbfounded.

“Who is she then?” he asks, carefully. Merlin just grins, that guarded, careful grin he’s been wearing since he got back, and snorts.  
“ _He_ is called Percy. Percival, actually.”

“Yeah. Sure,” is all Arthur can say. But that seems to be enough because Merlin smiles again and leans back against the counter, flicking the switch on the kettle with a little more flair than is required and Arthur’s suddenly dragged back nearly four years when Merlin used to dance around the kitchen like he had ants in his pants.  
It’s a nice settling reassurance.

It’s like hope.

  
*

Everything feels right again after that. There aren’t so many holes in his life now he has Merlin back. While everything feels rushed and pulled in too many directions, as they all fight to finish sorting out the details for the wedding, he’s not particularly disparaging about it all. They have a venue, they have the rings, they’ve registered their date and booked the registrar. The important bits are there. His friends have the day off (and the days afterwards as well, just to be sure) everything else is just frivolity, and while he’s not against that in any way shape or form – especially when being against that involves going up against Morgana, who has taken over Gwen’s portion of the Bridezilla terror he’s been warned about – he’s not particularly fussed about it all. He has everything he wants: Gwen, and his friends beside him.

There are brief upsides to the whole planning shtick, like the cake tasting and the food tasting and causing George infinite amounts of stress chasing individual antique table settings across Camelot. He quite enjoys picking the wine lists, which he uses as an excuse to take the boys out to a winery for an afternoon. Merlin plays chauffer and makes faces, sniffing the glasses and swirling the wine but never actually tasting any, for which Arthur’s sort of grateful for, because every time he sees Merlin with a drink in his hand he feels this undulated sense of raw panic he can’t control.

Seeing Merlin’s self control, though, is slightly heart warming, especially because Arthur somehow forgets that by asking the idiot to be his best man he’s giving him the rights to organise their stag party. Once he remembers though, he can’t seem to forget, especially because Merlin and Morgana get that wicked glint in their eyes and they spend an awful amount of time with their heads bowed, talking in whispers and shooting him glances from across the room. Gwen finds the whole thing hilarious, and a part of Arthur knows they’re preying on his paranoia and panic, but that doesn’t stop him from doing it.

It’s sort of a relief when Leon accidentally lets it slip that he’s been helping Merlin sort it out, which is comforting because at least he knows that it’s not going to be in a gay strip club just to teach him a lesson or something.

He also gets an insight into the fun of making Merlin endure suit fittings that Morgana and Gwen had experienced years ago, which makes him happier than he’s been in a while. The idiot complains and hides in the racks and whinges over prices and hemlines and both Leon and Lance laugh at him until Merlin starts pouting and then it’s his turn to be fitted and it all starts again.

For a while Arthur’s almost content enough to pretend it’s just like it used to be, before Freya, before he screwed up and kissed Merlin at the art show he’d won. Back so many years and beyond so many mistakes. But it’s not quite that simple, even though a part of him wishes desperately that it is. Merlin doesn’t let him meet Percy at all in the prelude to the wedding. While everyone is busy, including Merlin, dealing with Lorene and this tentative project illustrating a kids book that he seemed to get his hands on while he was in Ealdor and has been working on continuously, it’s not like there hasn’t been time for him to introduce Percy to them all down at the pub. Especially since Gwen’s brother Elyan has suddenly been dragged into their group after he’d returned to Camelot for their wedding. They still go down to the Rising Sun every Friday, like clockwork, and Merlin comes along, smiling and making Arthur’s nerves shriek every time he goes anywhere near the bar, even though all he ever does is nurse lemonade for half the night. He talks about the other man, that he’s a bouncer for a club in the outer city and that he loves bananas; he likes football and coaches kids on the estate on Saturdays, so he can’t come out. Things come out in snippets, dropped excuses for missed gatherings and Sunday mid-morning breakfasts, but the man never actually makes an appearance.

“Does this man even exist?” he snaps, eventually, disparate at knowing so little about the man who seems to be spending valuable time with Merlin that Arthur’s missing. Merlin just smiles that old annoying blasé smile and Arthur continues to pout.

“Course he does, Arthur, he’s tall enough he could pick up both you and your bottom lip and put you on the top shelf of that bookcase,” he says, his small smile hiding a laughing grin as he nods over Arthur’s shoulder at the floor to ceiling shelves taking up the far wall.

Arthur just scoffs, because much like any other description Merlin has of the man it’s not enough for Arthur to be able to find him, because it’s never something easy like his last name, or which suburb he lives in. No, it’s things like how he took Merlin to a vegetarian restaurant by accident because they both really liked the name and spent half the night trying to discretely avoid eating the tofu he’d ordered in his curry. Arthur had long got over using his company for somewhat discriminate personal means, but there was only so much he could do with ‘Percival-Something, possibly quite tall’ in any sort of database.

He’s aware that he uses his frustration with Merlin’s teasing love life to calm his rising nerves as his own wedding approaches with the ferocity of an approaching train. Morgana goes into overdrive more than anyone else, taking her Maid of Honour title far too seriously, if the sound of her heels putting holes into floorboards means anything. Arthur just surrenders his credit card and ignores the bills that pop up for bridal boutiques, day spas, hairdressers and shoe stores. He’s not sure if he finds it amusing or horrifying that Helen makes a point of printing out one particular page and highlighting one purchase from Agent Provocateur in the Citadel for some discriminate amount. It makes the rest of the day a washout though, because all he can really think about is Gwen in lingerie and Dylan Moran screaming about women looking like cake all afternoon.

Merlin and Leon go back to talking between themselves about the Stag Night and Arthur spends the last three weeks before the wedding worrying about being kidnapped because no one will tell him when the bloody night is. Even Elena gets this glint in her eyes when he tries to (not so) subtly to see if she knows anything. He spends ten minutes after that mourning the girl he knew before, and how sad it was Morgana had got her hands onto her. Even Lance just smiles and winks and says nothing.

“I thought you were my lawyer. I’m your client, you’re supposed to put me above everyone else.”

“And as your lawyer it’s my job to protect your best interests,” he says, smiling and Arthur scowls.

So really, considering how little control he has over his own marriage, it’s no wonder he fixates on a man that he’s been hearing about in snippets for three months. It’s not until the rehearsal dinner at Camelot Gardens that he meets the man.

He’s long used to meeting new people, he’s a dab hand at it, but while he hasn’t heard much at all about Percy from Merlin, which is sort of a giveaway that the idiot actually likes the guy, he’s certainly not expecting the man he meets. Percival is, to sum up in one word: huge. Merlin had warned him, or rather, teased him – but that hadn’t meant Arthur had believed the idiot. In truth, Percival is taller than Merlin and broader than Arthur and Leon put together and he looks like he could pick up both Arthur and Merlin up and hang them from one of the chandeliers in the dining hall.

“Merlin, you absolute whore,” he hears Morgana say to Gwen, who giggles and he’s stubbornly trying to bleach his brain at the images suddenly unlocked at his sisters words when Merlin drags the man over towards them. Arthur watches with a sort of controlled fascination and his brain wonders idly _but how would he fit?_

He’s blushing like a fucking schoolgirl when Merlin finally reaches them, grinning broadly, his fingers laced firmly through Percival’s.

“Percy, this is Arthur and Morgana and Gwen,” Merlin beams and Percy the Giant smiles amiably, almost shyly.

“You lot, this is Percy,” Merlin finishes, leaning back a little against the man’s broad chest and the way Percival’s arm immediately comes up to brace Merlin completely dwarfs the idiot, but it’s so gentle Arthur immediately, grudgingly approves of the man.

“Nice to meet you,” Arthur says, reaching out to shake Percy’s hand. The man has a surprisingly gentle grip and Arthur realises that he takes more care than it blatantly appears. Considering the biceps showing through his shirt he could probably lift up the entire Head table all on his own.

“You too,” Percy says with another amiable smile that makes Merlin’s grin widen once again like his face is about to split in two. He’s clearly enjoying the splash he’s made hiding his burgeoning boyfriend from them all for a few months and Arthur wants to pour a glass of champagne over Merlin’s head in a fit of pique, because dammit, this is _his_ wedding rehearsal dinner, even though it doesn’t really feel like it because he’s had to invite two dozen bloody corporate big wigs to keep the company in good graces and there are paparazzi lurking outside like locusts.

“Thank you for coming, Percy,” Gwen smiles, jerking Arthur back into the present to watch as his wife-to-be gets a kiss on the back of her hand when she reaches out to shake Percy’s, which serves to make her blush. Arthur really wants to get mad because who is this guy who can just walk in and sweep Merlin off his feet and then charm his wife-to-be like that? Except he can’t hold anything against the man because he blushes like a girl when Morgana smirks and leans up to kiss his cheek hello, which in turn makes Merlin laugh and reach up to press a kiss on the underside of Percival’s jaw. The look on the man’s face after that is so genuine that Arthur absolutely can’t hate him. It’s all genuine affection and concern and a little bit of shock, like he still can’t believe that he’s there with Merlin, which Arthur sort of understands and he’s been friends with the idiot for years now.

“I’ll talk to you later, yeah?” Merlin nods to them all and drags Percy off to their seats on the high table. Arthur follows them until he feels Gwen’s hand on the small of his back and then he jumps.

“He’s nice,” she smiles and Arthur grunts in reply, which just earns him a laugh from Gwen.

“He’s too big,” he frowns which just makes Morgana cackle.

“I’d say everyone else is too small afterwards if Merlin’s ever done with him. He’d be a fool to let that one go,” she crows, making Gwen blush and say “ _Morgana,_ ” and once again make Arthur wish he could bleach his mind.

“He seems nice,” Gwen says cautiously and Arthur just huffs which earns him another laugh. That’s all they have time for at that point though, because then the bastards from work start showing up and he has to pretend that he cares they’re all there at all and not actually intruding.

It just sort of swims by after that because they start taking their seats and bringing out the food.

It’s a pleasant evening. Gwen seems radiant with happiness, which makes it hard to be annoyed by the process of greeting everyone in the room, no matter Helen’s hushed reminder that no matter what he thought, when the CEO of Pendragon Incorporated got hitched, it was a public affair. He grits his teeth and minds it. Gwen, for her part, seems happy enough to shake hands and blush in all the right places and go along with every grey haired bint’s need to discuss their own wedding some three decades before Arthur was born.  
It doesn’t help that he can’t quite settle his thoughts about Percy, who Morgana seems to get along with almost immediately. Merlin spends half the evening with a rosy blush to his cheeks, which Arthur hopes quite dramatically, has more to do with Morgana embarrassing the hell out of him than his friend touching anything alcoholic.

He’d made a point of offering non-alcoholic options on every menu, thinking of Merlin every time he did it and he doesn’t regret it for a second.

But that’s not the only thing bugging him; the other thing is the spark of joy in the idiot’s gaze whenever Percy leans in to whisper something in Merlin’s ear. He shouldn’t be as infatuated with Merlin’s laughter as he is.

“Stop staring,” Gwen comments somewhere between the main meal and dessert where the room is lulling in their seats with glasses of wine and chatting and Morgana is back on the wrong side of the table perched on Percy’s lap, talking to Merlin. The whole scene is disturbingly intimate and Leon, still in his own seat on Gwen’s side, seems perfectly untroubled about the whole thing, chatting amiably with Lance and Elyan.

“I’m not.”

“You are, stop it,” Gwen murmurs and he glowers and finishes the last of his own wine and calls for more.

What isn’t helpful in any way towards solving the uncomfortable churning feeling in his stomach after they get home that night, is being abducted for his stag the very next night.  
The lot of them make a whole do out of the whole thing, knocking on his door at half eight while he is slobbing on the couch while Gwen is off taking care of wedding business with Morgana. He opens his door to immediately have Leon and Lance push their way inside, dressed as mobsters. He catches sight of Merlin in a slick black suit and a cane standing in the doorway before he’s blindfolded and his hands bound behind his back.  
“You lot are fucking insane,” he laughs.

“No talking,” Merlin orders, a commanding lilt to his voice that makes Arthur’s stomach do a flip before there are the thud of footsteps. He’s turned his face towards the sound and has a bare moment’s warning before Merlin utters, “Bring him,” and very large hands pick him up and toss him over their shoulder.

The squeak had been involuntary and completely manly.

“I am going to make you pay,” he swears from the back seat of a very large, foreign car some ten minutes later. There are two bodies, one on either side of him and a third in front and he’s still blindfolded and hands tied.

“Manners. You’re not in a position to argue right now, are you?” Merlin says, somewhere far away and Arthur guesses he’s in the front seat. He sounds authoritative, in control and Arthur wants to laugh because they’ve put some real fucking effort into this.

He falls quiet and lets the motion of the car lull him, he can feel when they turn a corner and stop at a light, and then a second and then another corner before the car speeds up and they must be on Camelot Road towards the Citadel.

There are half a dozen other turns after that and then the car pulls to a stop. Nothing happens for a moment before the doors open on either side and then Leon and Lance disappear for a moment and the air rushes in, cold against his skin and then there’s hands on him again, dragging him sideways and out of the car. It has to be Percy, he guesses, as they settle on his shoulder to make sure he has his balance on the sidewalk and then Leon and Lance fall in step either side of him again and lead him somewhere. Camelot is busy; he can hear cars and the trains, whistles and catcalls and the sound of his own breathing, loud in his ears.

Then they go through a door and it stops. The place is quiet and by then he’s a little creeped out as they lead him down a set of stairs and then through two doors before they stop.  
“Take it off,” Merlin says then, still in that same commanding tone and then the blindfold disappears and he has to blink to clear his vision because it’s _bright_. It takes him a moment and despite his persona, Merlin seems in no hurry. Lance stands in front of him and unties his hands then and Arthur clears his throat and glances around. He gets a better look at everyone then, Leon, Lance, Elyan and Percy dressed in sharp black suits that are definitely costumes more than anything else. Merlin’s suit is pinstriped and the idiot is actually wearing a _hat_ ; both hands perched on the cane out in front of him. He’s _posing_ and he looks like a fool and Arthur wants to laugh at him except he can’t because at the same time he looks amazing. It’s theatrical and hilarious and fuck, they’re in an empty hotel kitchen, like they’re in a mob movie and who the hell thought this up?  
Merlin sneers at him then and nods at Lance, who when Arthur glances sideways is holding a bundle.

“Get dressed,” Merlin orders. There’s nothing else for it, it’s an order; Arthur takes the pile and notices that it’s pretty much exactly what the others a wearing – crisp white shirt, waistcoat, tailored jacket and trousers.

“Now,” Merlin orders and Arthur blushes which then makes him feel stupid because Merlin just watches, like he’s ogling, which is a bit hilarious, and Jesus, he shouldn’t be ashamed of getting dressed in front of any of the guys present. So he strips. He pulls his t-shirt over his head and slides into the shirt, buttoning it up and feeling Merlin’s eyes on him the whole time.

He feels a little bit chastened, strangely and Merlin just wears this silly little smirk on his face as Arthur settles the tie and smooths down the jacket, more to compose himself than anything else.

Merlin just pauses on him before his gaze slides to Percy and nods.

The large man walks over to a door on the left hand wall Arthur had noticed in his sweep, and pushes it open. Merlin nods at Arthur and his expression softens for a moment, enough to see the hesitancy there and he knows this is Merlin’s opus. He walks forward and then starts laughing, because the group of them have turned the dining hall at Pendragon Towers into a speakeasy. There’s nearly two dozen people all crowded around the bar dressed like they’re from the 1920’s, slick suits and molls, feathers and sequins and martini glasses and –

“It’s about time you boys got here!” Morgana catcalls from where she’s perched on the bar, flapper dress showing too much leg and looking dazzling for it. Leon shrugs at him, looking unapologetic and jogs across the room to kiss her hello.

“Gwen’s over there,” Merlin says then, suddenly at Arthur’s side, grinning from ear to ear.

“How did you do this?”

“I know people. And Morgana knows people and everyone thought it’d be fun,” he says, shrugging. “It’s no strip joint, but considering I’m queer and organising the bloody thing I thought I’d have a bit of fun as well,” he smirks and Arthur laughs.

“You’re an odd one, Emrys, what I’d do without you?”

“Wonders never cease,” Merlin laughs and pushes him towards where Gwen is dolled up and curled up on a chaise lounge looking stunning and something turns over in Arthur’s stomach again and all he can do is kiss her until he can barely breathe.

  
*

The stag is a night he’ll never forget. The wedding on the other hand, blurs in his head to the point where he doesn’t actually really remember quite enough of it as he should. It sort of blurs by, a mess of colour and people pacing – first Merlin, then Morgana and finally Lance, casually stressing for him. It’s a little daunting watching the group of them dressed up, all in pristine suits, crisp white shirts and well-shone shoes, straight lines and silhouettes and Morgana in a form hugging pale green dress that matches Merlin’s tie and the crudités in Arthur’s buttonhole. He guesses he should really have paid more attention to the ribbons on the seats in the church and the flowers, how the whole thing has come together and is just beautiful, if Morgana is anything to go by. But then she’d had a full hand in orchestrating the whole thing so she would say as much.

Really, when it comes down to it it’s the five minutes it takes for the bride’s car to arrive until Gwen nervously clasps his own hands that he remembers the most vividly. The way Merlin had been skipping from foot to foot nervously, glancing between Arthur and the door of the church every ten seconds like he was expecting them to show up unannounced or something stupid. It’s the way Merlin’s idiotic nerves seem to calm his own, the way Lance, Elyan and Leon sit in the front row and shake their heads at them idly, amused grins on their faces just in front of the sea of anonymous people that Helen seemed to think was appropriate, considering his station.

He doesn’t care much at all. He cares about the people in the front two pews on either side and the people in the cars waiting to arrive and everyone else can go to hell as far as he’s concerned.

But when it comes down to it, he remembers Merlin knocking his shoulder against Arthur’s own and eyeing him with a silly grin on his face.

“Shut up, Merlin,” had been his precise words and the Idiot had opened his mouth to answer and instead someone at the back shouted that the bridal car had arrived. Then all of a sudden Arthur’s hands were clammy and he could feel all the blood drain out of his face.

Merlin had laughed, and then tried to straighten his tie and then turned to the front and just _grinned_ like the giant buffoon he was.

“It’s all right, son,” the Priest had said amiably, with a hearty chuckle of his own and by then the organ had started up and Jesus, when did the girls decide they were going all out with the roses and the cream and the Ave Maria on an organ?

What he really remembers most is the image of Gwen walking down the aisle, though. Morgana clicking her way down first, gathering as much attention as she could before Gwen and her father, followed her down. His future wife, all in white, beautiful as he’d ever seen, walking towards him.

That’s the moment that sticks, right up until the rings, until the room stops snickering at Merlin dropping them first before handing Gwen’s up to Arthur while he was on his knees, Gwen giggling as Arthur murmured his vows trying half-heartedly to not be furious with Merlin and trying to stop smiling like his face was going to split in half.  
The feeling of Gwen’s hand in his as she slipped his own ring on made his skin tingle.

And from there, his memories seemed to disappear in the vestige of laughter at their reception.

The only thing that takes root is the speeches, which seem to both terrify him and the speakers.

Hell, Morgana starts to cry.

But only after she’s made the entire room laugh at Arthur’s expense after his years of pining over Gwen.

He has to give it to them, it’s laughable, but every moment of it seems so damn worth it considering where they are. How far they’ve come.

Merlin, on the other hand, seems determined to make everyone else in the room cry.

“I haven’t been a part of their lives as long as Morgana, as sad as that is – I would have loved to have seen some of those early slip ups on Arthur’s part. But I have been around long enough to know how important each of these two are to each other. I’m lucky enough to count the pair of them as two of my truest friends, and to know that they’ve found happiness with each other is one of my life’s greatest blessings. They have been with me through some of the hardest days of my life, and I can only hope that I can stand with them through all the greatest of theirs, as many as can be from this day forth. I wish the pair of you all the blessings in the world, you have no idea how lucky either of you are. Some of us would kill to have what you have.”

Arthur has to laugh then, mostly to hide the yearning part of him that wants to hug Merlin for some absurd reason as the idiot gets down off the chair, looking a little vulnerable as Percy leans into him and whispers something in his ear. Arthur looks away then because Gwen starts laughing wetly, brushing tears off her face as the rest of the room echoes with the sound of everyone else toasting the pair of them at Leon’s shout.

The whole thing feels a little bizarre, when he tries to think about it, so he mostly spends the night not thinking about it. Not that the night doesn’t speed by; before he really notices, dinner is over and the room is finally starting to thin after a good couple of hours worth of dancing.

Gwen’s a warmth against his neck, the scent of her, vanilla and something flowery, send a tender shiver through him as they sway in the middle of the ballroom floor. The ring still feels strange on his finger, almost binding all of its own as he thumbs it. Transcending its own meaning.

He can’t stop smiling, it’s almost an ache in his cheeks but he can’t stop.

The music doesn’t matter, he’ll dance to anything as long as he can feel her in his arms, feel her wrapped around him, the ring on his finger, the ring on hers.

They’re married.

He shuffles a little more to the right and feels her smile against his neck. It can’t really be called dancing, what they’re doing, it’s more of an embrace with a shuffle. They gave up the proper dancing three songs ago now. Or maybe more, he’s lost count. The whole night is winding down, the music settling into slow numbers and long lost pop songs – all the good stuff happened while the booze was flowing. Anyone left behind is staying at the hotel and therefore well into the wine. Most of them are slumped in chairs around the room, eyeing those still dancing with distaste. Technically he and Gwen should have disappeared an hour ago – off into the distance with a car covered in shaving foam and tin cans. He wouldn’t have put Merlin past the whole cliché shebang in the slightest. But their flight isn’t until the morning and the idea of sleeping in the room upstairs again isn’t going to be something he’s going to let go by. Not that he’s much in the mood for anything, either. He’s exhausted, all he really wants is to curl up with his wife and hold her and in the morning they can christen their marriage bed before the mad dash to the airport.

Tonight is for them.

He smiles again and he guides Gwen in another half-hearted turn in their shuffling dance. As he looks up for a moment, his eyes catch Merlin’s across the dance floor and for the briefest of seconds he could almost have sworn that there was something yearning on Merlin’s face, something sad in his expression. But then as soon as he thinks it’s there, it’s gone, Merlin breaking into one of those killer smiles of his. Blinding and happy and Arthur snorts quietly before leaning down to press his lips to Gwen’s crown before she can look up at him and catch him trying not to laugh at the way Merlin is poking his tongue out at him from across the room while perched on Percy’s lap.

They’ve all come a long way, really, from that day when he’d shown up at the bar trying to get a chance to talk to Gwen, and Merlin was sitting there taking up space and reminding Arthur of a conversation he’d pretty much forgotten. They’ve come a long way from awkward university students trying to figure themselves out. From the death of Merlin’s mother and Arthur being handed PenInc, Gwen’s job and Morgana refusing to obey conventions and everything in between – Freya and Lancelot and Elena, art shows and arguments – it’s all culminated in right now, this ring on his finger and Merlin sitting on Percy’s lap, the man’s arms wrapped carefully around his waist, Elena and Lancelot doing their own shuffle in the far corner and Morgana and Leon no doubt in their room upstairs giving their neighbours a fright.

“We should head upstairs,” he says, leaning down to whisper in Gwen’s ear.

“We should,” she whispers back.

And it’s that simple.

It’s that wonderful.

He doesn’t want it to end.

 

*


	8. Part Eight

*

 

** Part Eight **

*****

**_If you press me to say why I loved him, I can say no more than because he was he, and I was I._  
Michel de Montaigne**

*

It’s nearly a week before he sees Merlin after they get back to Camelot. Out of everything that gets to him the most out of returning after his honey moon, over-sunned, (possibly) over-sexed, and over the moon, it’s the radio silence on Merlin’s part and therefore the (not)pining on his. He’d made himself a pact all those weeks ago now, after Merlin came back from Ealdor, that he wasn’t going to let so muchtime go past without seeing the skinny idiot, and he hadn’t, until his honeymoon. So he figures he’s allowed to miss his best friend. Gwen calls it pining and a part of him has to agree, even if he’ll never admit it. It gets worse when Merlin doesn’t call him after nearly four days of being back. It’s almost to the point wherbe hen thinks Gwen is going to send him around to Merlin’s to stop him fussing and moping on the couch.

Eventually Merlin texts him for coffee and Arthur’s half sure Gwen texted Merlin behind his back but it comes to the same answer so he doesn’t push it, he just makes sure to tease her senseless that night in bed with his tongue and feels happy enough when she all but breaks down and orders him to _bloody hell get on with it_. He’s won and she knows it and it makes him laugh and all the blood in his body sing, regardless of whether it’s in his head, his heart or his cock.

Still, it’s nice to see Merlin out and about. It’s been months now, but he’s got all his colour back these days and for a while Arthur can almost pretend that Freya never happened. After all, Merlin has one of those faces that hasn’t seemed to age much at all since that first night in the pub when Arthur couldn’t remember his name.

What’s even better is that Arthur beats him to the café and is already waiting on the bench by the window when Merlin arrives, and when he does he’s practically bouncing. There’s a spring in his step and he plonks down next to Arthur with this _stupid_ wistful sort of smile on his face and Arthur’s first thought is _whipped as fuck_. Which has never really been Merlin. Merlin’s always been shy, hesitant about his emotions and what he’s giving away when he’s dating someone, which Arthur’s always found a bit dense considering with everything else he practically throws it away. Arthur knows he used to play by play his one night stands with Gwen and Morgana during Uni. With his lovers, however, it was tight knit, closed off and _quietly_ happy.

This Merlin is sunshine bright and blinding and he doesn’t give a fuck who knows it.

It’s almost off-putting.

“Someone’s happy today,” Arthur chides, a little smug to hide his confusion as Merlin reaches for his chilli hot chocolate. Merlin _wiggles_.

“Yeah,” he smiles and it’s without any sort of hint of doubt. The sight of it almost makes Arthur want to sing. Merlin hasn’t looked this happy in months, months and months and while it’s been getting better, so much better, Merlin’s not worn a smile like this since before he and Gwen got engaged. Arthur knows, he knows Merlin’s smiles. He’d catalogued them years ago and this one, this is something old and beautiful and he didn’t realise how much he missed it until it’s back and he knows he’s not the cause of it. His own happiness deflates, just a little. Merlin keeps smiling.

“Care to explain?” Arthur probes and now Merlin blushes, hanging his head and hiding under his fringe before canting his head a little and peering at Arthur through his lashes. It’s almost coy. Arthur laughs and shoves him sideways, laughing harder as Merlin sprawls, twisting to save his chocolate.

“Ha, it’s nothing exciting. Not really. S’just, I got a book deal. Through Morgana.”

“A book deal, that’s what’s got you smiling like a loon? I don’t believe you. You can barely put two words together on paper.”

“Ha ha, piss off,” Merlin laughs, his eyes shining. “It’s a kids thing. Story book. Wizards and castles and princes in towers?”

“ _Princes_ in towers?”

“Yeah, they’re all gonna look like you and a Princess and a wizard like Gwen and me have to save you. Morgana’s the evil witch. She asked.”  
“You’re full of it.”

“I’m not. I’ve got the paperwork and everything. Mithian loves it.”

“Well, congratulations then,” Arthur smiles, enjoying the easy exchange. He’s pretty sure he’ll never stop enjoying the thrill he gets out of teasing Merlin.  
“But that’s not everything, is it?” he asks and Merlin flushes again.

“Come on, out with it,” he goads and Merlin bites his lip.

“How did you know – “ he asks, forcibly nonchalant and Arthur wants to bash him round the head and tell him to get on with it already, but Merlin’s gone all mock-composed again and Arthur wants to call him a girl because this clearly _means something to him_. Arthur just wants to _know_ ; he needs to know who it is who can make Merlin smile like that when he can’t, not anymore. Because it has to be someone. If drawing a kid’s book can only get him giddy, then whatever has him like _this_ , flush with excitement and smiling like he hasn’t in years – then it has to be someone. And it has to be someone important.

“How did you know Gwen was the one for you?” Merlin finally spits out and Arthur stops still for a moment. Merlin is watching him, with his stupid blue eyes wide and searching and it kills, just for a moment, because how could he have missed this? He’s been away three weeks but surely this has been longer…

“I – I don’t know,” he says, honestly. “She just was. I’d never felt around another girl the way I felt around her and It never stopped. I wanted to be with her, all the time. She’s soft and sweet and strong and I could never think of anyone else when she was around. Even when I was with somebody else.”

Merlin blushes and it takes him a moment to start talking again; Arthur waits him out. He has to wait; he has to wait just to see who can make his Merlin happy again.  
“What if – “ he starts and then stops and blushes to his ears again and Arthur can’t put a hold on the laugh that bursts out of him, soft and teasing. Merlin’s blush deepens just a little and then he starts again.

“What if you thought _that way_ about someone else, and then you met this person and they made you forget? You didn’t think you’d ever be able to stop feeling for this person and then this new person makes you forget everything. Everything. Is that better or worse?”

“It’s human, Merlin. If they make you happy now then be with them. You deserve to be happy, you know, and, well, Freya’s not coming back. If this person can make you smile like the idiot I know you are, then all for them I say.”

The smile slips for just a moment and Arthur thinks maybe he’s said the wrong thing as Merlin glances at him, his eyes dark and searching, but then Merlin nods and he’s smiling again.

“Is this that Percy bloke, from the wedding?” Arthur asks, a little hesitantly. He liked Percy, the bloke was easy to get along with and was genuine and clearly had a soft spot for Merlin, no matter how much Arthur begrudged him for it.

“No,” Merlin says, a little timid now and that it makes Arthur stop.

“Then who?” he asks, harrowing in and Merlin laughs again.

“Percy introduced me, his name’s Gwaine.”

“ _Percy_ introduced you? Your ex introduced you?”

Merlin flushes again and laughs quietly to himself before answering Arthur.

“We only went out a few times, Arthur. I didn’t really know what I was doing half the time, dating again and Percy had a really huge cock,” he shrugs. “It was simple, rally. He’s sweet. I liked him but it was more friendly than anything else. Percy understood that. He introduced me to Gwaine, he’s amazing, Arthur. He makes me laugh.”

“Right, well, I’m glad,” Arthur manages to say and he feels like a complete and utter dickhead for it. Merlin’s smile slips a little.

“I’m glad he makes you happy again, Merlin,” Arthur says then and Merlin goes perfectly still.

“We were worried about you.”

Merlin looks at him, but doesn’t say anything.

“ _I_ was worried about you,” he confesses and for a brief moment after he wishes he hadn’t, because he’s never quite got around this, being able to tell those he loves just how much he cares for them. Never quite found himself willing and able to put his neck on the block.

Merlin doesn’t say anything for a long time; he simply crawls closer beside Arthur. Arthur can feel the warmth of Merlin’s body pressed up against his own and he waits it out. Merlin rests his head on Arthur’s shoulder and it’s only then that he speaks.

“I know,” he says, so quietly that Arthur almost misses it. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he replies and closes his eyes for a moment, breathing in the feel of Merlin tight against him, drawing in the feel of his body, his breath on Arthur’s neck, the smell of his hair and his cologne and rich chocolate, the knowledge that somewhere someone is making Merlin happy again.

It shouldn’t be something he envies.

But it is.

  
*

He uses work as a distraction again, which he knows he shouldn’t, but there’s little else he can turn to legitimately without causing undue concern, and therefore unwanted attention. Work allows him the space and comfort to work through the strange unfolding anger that seems to well up whenever he thinks of Merlin wearing that timid, nervous smile like he was outside the café. He doesn’t like the way his inner voice _sneers_ when it says the name Gwaine, but it has a tendency to do so which makes him feel like a fourteen year old girl, which, in turn, makes him frown and work twice as hard on whatever tends to be on his desk at any one time. Helen starts raising her eyebrow at him in a wordless challenge he never rises to, because he’s smarter than that. But it’s enough to remind him that at least one person knows he’s not working through something that very clearly has nothing to do with PenInc.

Gwen, thankfully, is the next person to see through him, which is clearly a sign the world likes him, because his situation is not something he wants to try and explain to Morgana, who is logically the only person he can think who would understand everything and call him on it.

He likes to think Merlin’s too thick to see through him. Especially since he’s seemingly gone back to his old habit of showing up at random intervals with coffee and muffins and trying to force Arthur to gossip about anything and everything.

He’s completely infuriating and not to mention happy, which does _absolutely nothing_ for Arthur’s stress levels at all.

In fact, when his wife knocks on the door and wanders in without bothering to wait for him to acknowledge her, he thinks its Merlin and looks up with a scowl, already talking.  
“You know one day you’re going to have to get a proper job, _Mer_ lin, and stop annoying me at mine – “

“Oh, it’s not that bad, Arthur; I hear he brings cake,” Gwen smiles and he has to catch himself on the desk to avoid tipping his chair over as he sits up and almost goes too far.

“Gwen!”

Her laughter chases away the foot tall pile of problems sitting on his desk and the jealousy at Merlin’s new-found happiness for the time it takes her to walk across the room and perch on the edge of his desk.

“What are you doing here?”

“I hear you’re being an ogre.”

“On whose authority?”

“Numerous. My own included.” He feels a blush start across his cheeks and Gwen laughs, not unkindly.

“You know, I hear when a man comes back from his honey moon it’s supposed to be the best time of his life.”

“And where have you heard that?”

“Oh don’t go pulling that card, Arthur.”

It’s his turn to laugh then.

“Seriously, is there something wrong?” she asks, softly, her concern evident.

“No?”

“Do I have to hold out on you? Cause I will.”

“That’s not fair,” he pouts and she cracks a small smile.

“Nor is the way you’re treating everybody. Why are you biting everyone’s heads off then, hmm?”

He stops for a moment, not entirely sure how to word this, how to breach it without sounding insane. He can’t find one that’s any better than the last, so he just goes with it.  
“What do you know about this Gwaine, fellow?” he frowns and does not expect his wife’s expression to shift so quickly and certainly not into some thinly veiled delight.  
“… Gwaine? You’re having a sulk and abusing everyone because Merlin hasn’t told you about his new boyfriend? _Arthur_!”

“What?”

Gwen laughs and shakes her head, her curls bouncing.

“Merlin doesn’t tell us when he’s in love, remember?” she chides and Arthur colours a little. Embarrassment curling up in his stomach and flushing his cheeks. It hadn’t sounded quite so daft in his head.

“Well he should.”

“Oh my god, you’re jealous.”

“I am not,” he replies, reaching out to curl his fingers under the edge of her shirt.

“I have you,” he says and Gwen shivers under his touch, but she’s still wearing that expression that says she hasn’t let it go and she still finds him ridiculous.  
“But this is Merlin. You’re always – why didn’t I think of this?” she asks, sounding like she’s talking mostly to herself.

“Think of what?” he asks anyway.

Gwen reaches out and runs her hand through his hair in an intimate moment that makes Arthur glad his office is closed off and on the top floor, away from all the busy body gossipers downstairs in advertising, because this is why he loves her, this kindness and gentle beauty and for a stupid moment he feels it and just wants to squirm. Feelings should not have such adverse effects, really.

“Arthur, Sweetie. Merlin will introduce you to Gwaine when he’s ready. It’s as simple as that,” Gwen says, still smiling and with her fingers at the nape of his neck.  
“No it’s not. He’s making him _happy_ ,” he pouts.

“And there’s a problem with that?”

“Yes! No! I mean – We should get to meet him.”

“And we will, when Merlin’s sure that you’re not going to chase the poor man off by being like this.”  
“Like what?” he scowls.

“A Neanderthal, husband mine.”

He makes a noise then that’s not really a rebuttal at all, but he can’t find anything else to say on the matter without getting any more ridiculous than he already is.  
“Remind me why I married you?” he asks, teasing just to wind her up and it works, Gwen laughs and her eyes dance and her lips quirk.

“For my money, clearly. But I think the real question is why did _I_ marry you?” she grins and Arthur chuckles.

“Come to lunch with me?” he asks.

“Of course. You’re paying. I come to see my new husband at work and I wind up talking down his jealousy over his best friend. I have to say this isn’t how I was expecting this to go.”  
Arthur grins and stands up to kiss her properly.

“I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” he says and fully intends to. He kisses her silly and he almost doesn’t expect for them to make it out of the office until Gwen puts a stop to it. They take the elevator down to the ground floor and they’re walking across the atrium to the building, hand in hand when the receptionist shrieks almost inhumanely and pulls Arthur to a stop.

“Mr Pendragon, Sir! I’m sorry, sir, but Ms Annis is calling – there’s been an incident at one of the printing warehouses, sir! They’re looking for you upstairs.”  
Arthur feels the physical weight of his already bad day descend on him twice as heavy as it had been before Gwen showed up and lightened the load immeasurably. He frowns, squeezing her hand apologetically.

“I’m sorry,” he says and he can see her understanding right there. He can see the same expression his father’s lovers used to wear while they’d attempted to love him.  
“Go, it sounds important,” she says and leans in to kiss him again.

“I love you,” he whispers against her ear as they pull away and she squeezes his hand again.

“I’ll bring you a sandwich or something. There’s a good little shop a couple of blocks away. Go be important.”

He dashes upstairs to discover that ‘an incident at one of the printing warehouses’ actually turned out to be a _fire_ at one of the printing warehouses, destroying valuable stock and machines. No one was hurt, but it’s a major bump in that sector and takes the entire day to take stock of what happened and get things underway to be fixed. The actual fixing drags on for much longer.  
In the end he finds himself eating the sandwich Gwen bought him for dinner whilst on a phone conference trying to figure out where the hell they’re going to reroute the scheduled printing they have over the next six months or so while their bloody warehouse is rebuilt.

Somehow the next three days of his life become wrapped around a small, but prolific, publishing house and it’s two still standing – almost fully functional – printing houses two suburbs south of the Pen Inc warehouse that burned down. Nemeth Publishing isn’t large, by any means, but it does have a history. They’d slumped a lot in the last ten years and while the three warehouses had whittled down to two – one open and functional and one empty – it still stands. And it’s his most logical answer.

Negotiations, however, prove a little difficult; especially as their problems all began with the brutal way Arthur’s father had run his business. Back when they’d started out, when Uther first bought into publishing, Nemeth had been fair competition. But Uther’s determination and fierce business skills had smothered the competition as best it could. Nemeth was still standing, but barely.

And they were a proud little place, if Mithian Nemeth was anything to take into account. She was ruthless over the phone the same way that Uther had been, refusing to back down, proud and determined to keep Nemeth open and under its own guise. As far as Pen Inc was concerned, buying the business outright and simply claiming the warehouses was almost better than renting them. But Mithian wasn’t going to let it go. She was fierce.

“Tell me, Arthur, if our positions were swapped and it was me trying to whittle you out of your legacy, me trying to buy out the company your father slaved to keep running for more than ten years – would you just give in? Roll over and let the company who you’d fought against just swoop in and take everything?”

“That’s not what I’m offering,” he replies, knowing in that moment she has him pinned, because as good a deal as he’d offered them, as determined as he was to make sure that the little place got their monies worth out of a Pendragon takeover, the truth was, he agreed with her. If their positions were swapped he’d take Nemeth for everything that they were worth, just to keep Pendragon Inc open and open of their own accord. If Mithian took his offer, Nemeth would disappear into the Pendragon machine and before five years passed the signs would be swapped and the printing houses would all feature the PenInc dragon signature on the back of each book, magazine and brochure that escaped the warehouse.  
“Isn’t it?” Mithian answers, a voice that’s honey sweet and determined, an inner strength to her that makes him think of Morgana and that, if anything, makes him reaffirm his decision. They’re fighting a losing battle. If Mithian is anything like Morgana, then she’s never going to sign over the deeds to any Nemeth building without the certainty that Nemeth remains independent and hers.

“What if I changed my offer,” he brokers and she laughs.

“And what are you offering now?”

“A two year lease on the warehouses, or until ours are reopen and fully functional, whichever is later. The lease includes all equipment and any upgrades made belong to Nemeth Publishing, at the cost of Pendragon Inc. Furthermore, Pendragon Inc will supply a redistribution grant over the next five years, allowing Nemeth to get back on its feet.”  
“Sounds good to me, Pendragon, but I don’t see what it’s going to get you.”

“Continued printing, and the knowledge that if you ever do decide to sell, you give me a call first.”

She laughs then, but doesn’t give him an answer. Instead, he has to fight through two more phone calls – both of which she hangs up on him mid sentence, much to Helen’s amusement – and three meetings.

Mithian is making him chase her. The longer she drags it out, the more determined he is to get her to sign, knowing that she’s testing just how much he needs the warehouse. She has the upper hand and she knows it. With each day that passes without a building, the more jobs pile up and the more Pen Inc suffers. The incorporation has fingers in so many pies, but the warehouses are important to each and every sector – all their marketing brochures, pamphlets, books, posters, magazines – it all comes out of the warehouses and currently they’re running on short supply and the longer they’re closed, the more everything else is going to be impacted, and realistically he can’t continue to pay out salaries to employees who aren’t working.

The weight of the whole mess is a lot to bear for Arthur, and while a part of him knows and enjoys the fact that Mithian has balls and isn’t afraid to use them to her own advantage – another thing that reminds him of Morgana, above and beyond the way she argues, the way she looks and the way her lip curls when she’s smug. After their second meeting face to face, she still holds out on an answer, and so he goes into their third meeting with the intention of either signing the deal, or looking elsewhere. And he tells her as much.

“I have a business to run, Miss Nemeth, I have employees to pay, I have stock to print, I have customers to satisfy. Either you’re going to help me continue to do that, or you’re not. I need an answer. Today.”

Of all the responses he was anticipating, laughter was not quite one of them.

“He said you weren’t going to let me get away with this much longer,” she smiles, her eyes dancing and for a moment Arthur has no idea what’s going on.  
“Who said?” he asks, gaze narrowing.

“Our mutual friend,” she chuckles, turning to reach into her handbag and pulls out a book. A slim thing, brightly coloured – aimed for young children; the name on the front cover startles him.

“Merlin?”

“It is a wonderful book. I especially like the tantrum you pull on page twelve,” she smiles wolfishly and then it’s Arthur’s turn to laugh.

Lance, sitting further down the table, pretending not to pay attention to their idle threats over the contract, just looks at them for a second and tries to hide his smile.  
“So you’ve been conspiring with my traitor of a best friend have you?”

“Idly discussing,” Mithian shrugs with a vibrant grin. “I would have thought you’d have realised Nemeth was the one publishing Merlins’ book.”  
“I never thought it through.”

“You assumed he submitted to Pen Inc.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“No, I suppose not,” she grins, sounding far too pleased with herself. “So, how about we get down to business, Mr Pendragon?”  
She signs the contract and Lance signs as witness and they shake hands, all very formal and official and Arthur’s pleased that at the very least as of tomorrow he can start formally routing orders for new printing press and paper stock and ink and all the messy bits and pieces that will need to happen to get Mithian’s empty warehouse running again.

Arthur takes Merlin’s book home, much to Gwen’s amusement. Merlin’s worse, however, when Arthur calls him up to yell at him. He spends a good five minutes laughing at him and seems to thoroughly enjoy the idea that Arthur’s people will be printing off page after page of the little blond haired Arthur-Prince frowning in misery up in his locked tower.  
In the end, Arthur hangs up on him and has to spend the rest of the afternoon ignoring Merlin’s mocking text messages.

The idiot.

*

Thankfully, the next two months go by blessedly quickly. The warehouse fiasco seems to find its feet rather quickly. Mithian, despite all her trouble over the contracts, proves to be a blessing in disguise, guiding the way with relative ease. Better still, she’s a bit of a laugh and easy to get along with, which given the amount of stuffy, over-pompous heirs to fortunes Arthur’s dealt with over the years is an absolute godsend.

The month after the fire has Arthur fielding work calls left, right and centre all days of the week at odd hours, which Gwen seems to take in her stride. Lorene at the Gallery upgrades the space Gwen controls and the promotion gives her a boost of confidence that is a wonder to see and, thankfully, gives her a quite generous amount of work to sort through as well, which makes Arthur a little less guilty about the whole thing. Not that she held anything against him in the beginning anyway. She seemed quite pleased with how he was dealing with it, proud of him, she’d said, pressing the words to his naked chest one night.

Everything else sort of slips through his fingers for a while and he misses two Friday nights before he manages to get a hold on his life again. But by the end of the second month, it’s business as usual, and Merlin’s harried texts become more urgent to drag him back into their old routine.

 

 **FROM: Idiot**  
15:47  
PUB TONIGHT  
You in?

____________  
 **TO: Idiot**  
15:53  
Yes.  
____________

 

 **FROM: Idiot**  
16:01  
FINALLY

____________

 **FROM: Idiot**  
17:26  
I’m gonna be late.  
Don’t buy me a  
first round. Mx

 

True to his last text, Merlin’s the only one missing from their booth when Arthur turns up at the Sun that night. He’s late himself and Morgana mocks him for it as he slides into the booth next to Gwen who smiles and kisses him hello.

“Merlin said he’d be late,” he tells the group as he pulls off his jacket and scarf.

“He texted me as well. At the very least Merlin has the courtesy to tell us beforehand,” his sister mocks from the other end of the table.

“Shut up, Morgana. I’ll get first round, alright?” he appeases, not entirely wanting to ruin the first chance he’s had to see everyone in the last couple of weeks. They were still behind on printing and it had taken time and effort to sort through, and now that it seems to have quietened he’s looking forward to enjoying his life again. Settling into the rhythm is easy enough as he brings back across a couple of jugs and glasses, filling them and passing them around. They all meet up regularly enough that there’s never really any big news to talk about on Fridays that they haven’t all heard before, so the talking is easy and mostly teasing, which only gets worse the more pints they get into as the night progresses. As such, they’re all into their second glasses when the door bangs open, aided by the fierce wind outside and a wind rattled duo stumble in. It’s easy to recognise the taller of the pair and Morgana cheers him as the idiot trips over his own feet.

“Look who turned up on my doorstep this afternoon,” Merlin grins as he drags Will behind him over to their corner table, dispensing of his coat as he goes.

“Will!” Gwen smiles, getting up to hug him and Merlin hello. Everyone nods, raising their beers in greeting and Arthur tries to look civil about it, because the last thing he needed on the day he’s trying to relax and reaffirm his social life, is William Harris.

“What’s got you in Camelot?” Lance asks amiably from the other end of the table and Merlin smiles happily as Will answers.

“Thought I’d come and see Merlin for a bit, enjoy the sparkle of city life for a few days. Nothing special,” Will shrugs.

“That’s lovely,” Gwen adds, ever the diplomat and Arthur silently thanks her. Will grunts and nods around the table at the all-but-full pints everyone has in front of them.  
“Drink?” he asks Merlin and Merlin nods. Will’s face cracks into a grin.

“Spare us a tenner?” Will smirks and Merlin rolls his eyes, chuckling, before holding up a note already folded between his fingers. His hands nowhere near his pockets.  
“Eh-hey!” Will grins. “More magic tricks then?” He takes the note and ruffles Merlin’s hair, making for the bar. Arthur pretends that he wasn’t watching, but he can still see the blush climbing up Merlin’s cheeks.

“Magic tricks, Merlin? Do I need to buy you a pointy hat for Christmas?” he mocks.

“Shut up. Gwaine taught me. That tenner’s Will’s,” he replies, his smile nearly breaking his face as he chuckles and Arthur can’t help it, he laughs.  
“Pickpocketing now, Merlin? If I knew you needed money I’d throw you another art exhibit.”

“Oi! I don’t need your charity, Puff. I’m a real boy, I can take care of myself.”

“Ha! We both know that’s a lie,” Arthur laughs, taking another long drain of his beer.

Merlin makes a face at him and once again Arthur has to fight not to spray beer all over the table.

“Manners, husband mine,” Gwen smiles, turning away from her conversation with Morgana to eye him; Arthur smiles back at her amiably.

“I thought all posh gits had excellent manners or something?” Will says, bursting into the conversation again with the veracity only he can accomplish.  
“Will – “ Merlin says, rolling his eyes. Will just grins down at Merlin and dumps a pint of lager in front of him.

“I’ll best be keeping that change for the next round, right?” he says, climbing over the back of the chair.

“It’s yours anyway,” Merlin says, reaching for his beer and taking a long swallow, eyeing Will over the top of his glass and waiting for the penny to drop.  
“It’s what?”

“It’s yours,” Merlin shrugs, lips wet with beer and eyes dancing. Arthur watches for a moment, stuck in a feeling of mixed contentment. It’s been such a long time since things have been this… simple. It’s nice. While he doesn’t get on that well with Will, it’s always been clear that he and Merlin mean a lot to each other. They’ve been friends since they were kids and no matter how much time apart, that cannot be hindered short of a severe betrayal, and well, with Merlin, Arthur is pretty sure the idiot can forgive anything. And he isn’t particularly capable of anything malicious himself.

Will had probably been the only one who could have helped Merlin with his drinking without pressuring, helping without doing a thing.  
And that’s when Arthur’s eyes slide back to the glass in Merlin’s hand. The glistening pint of beer.

Will cackles at something Merlin’s said and Arthur’s sure he’s missed the second half of the conversation. But it doesn’t matter; his eyes are fixed on the glass in Merlin’s hand.  
He leans across the table and Merlin frowns but follows his example and leans forward.

“Should you be drinking that?” he asks, gaze flickering down to the beer. Merlin’s expression tightens.

“Arthur – “ he says, but then Will seems to decide he wants to interfere, and this, this is the moment Arthur wishes he could do again.  
“What’s got your knickers in a knot, Pendragon?”

“You shouldn’t have bought him a beer, Harris.”

“The fuck I shouldn’t have?”

“He’s a recovering _alcohol addict_ , you shouldn’t have bought him anything.”

“Look, you posh twat, Merlin’s an adult, I think he gets a right of say. Merls says he’s fine, he’s fine.”

“Arthur – “ Merlin says and Arthur spins his attention back on Merlin, who’s looking between the two of them looking a little flummoxed.

“No! You shouldn’t be drinking this. You know you shouldn’t,” he says and leans over to take the beer out of Merlin’s reach. Will’s eyes flash.  
“Look, Pendragon – “

“No, you look. Have you forgotten how bad he was? Or did you just figure that one wouldn’t hurt and you could fuck off back to Ealdor after and not worry about the consequences?”  
“It’s _one fucking beer_.”

“It always starts with one, you imbecile! Everything starts off with just one and the next thing you know you’re breaking down his front door because he’s _passed out_ in the bathroom – “

“I am _right here_!” Merlin shouts and everything goes quiet. Merlin’s breathing hard and his eyes are wide and there’s this look of blazing _hurt_ in them that stops Arthur short.

“I am right here and the pair of you can just shut up.”

“Come on Merls- “

“I said _shut up_ , Will!” Merlin snaps.

“Now I get that you both care, I _know_ that, but all I want to do is throw this in both your faces and the only reason I haven’t is because I’ve only got one bloody cup. And dammit, Arthur’s right, Will, you should have bought me a fucking coke like I asked you to in the car. But Christ, Arthur, have a little faith in me. Trust me, alright? Fuck.” Merlin exhales, but the tension doesn’t leave his shoulders and he turns towards the others at the other end of the table. “Sorry. God. I’m sorry, but I’m going home.”

He huffs and grabs for his coat, not fifteen minutes after they’d come inside and Will is scrambling for his own coat.

“Sorry,” Merlin says again as he grabs his scarf and looks down the table towards Leon and Morgana and Gwen, all of whom are just staring at the event at the other end. As Merlin turns and walks out the pub, Will trailing behind him, tripping over two chairs on the way out, Arthur can feel everyone’s eyes turn to him.  
“Don’t, Morgana,” he says as he watches his sister open her mouth to say something. She closes it and Arthur looks resolutely down at his own glass, a bare swallow left in the bottom. He can feel the others watching him and he can’t stand it.

He stands up.

“I’m err, I’m going to head home,” he says, reaching into his pocket for his keys. Gwen turns to him and he tries to find the words to apologise to her for being an arse, but they stick in his throat. The look in her eyes says she understands. Says she knows him and really, she expected as much of him.

“Call me when you want me to pick you up?” he asks her and she shakes her head at him.

“Don’t be silly,” she says and reaches for her coat. He can still feel Morgana watching him.

“I’ll see you next week,” he says and Leon nods. Morgana closes her mouth in a pursed line and says nothing.  
“See you,” Elena says and Lance and Elyan nod in agreement.

It’s raining outside worse than when Arthur arrived and the wind is fierce. It pulls at their coats and threatens to tear them from their bodies even buttoned up. It’s dark and Arthur drives slowly, overcompensating against the heavy press of the weather. Neither of them speak the whole trip home, even though he grips the steering wheel too tight and can feel Gwen’s eyes on him off and on. He takes each bend carefully, slow and steady, the sound of the windscreen wipers tapping out an even beat to replace the sound of the stereo.  
The beat of the rain is almost dangerously like hail, thick and fast and only serves to add to his frustration. Usually when it rains it’s almost soothing but tonight is different. He thinks it might have been a nanny he and Morgana had when they were small, while Uther was at work night and day, but he has this definite memory of sitting in the window seat at Pendragon Manor watching the rain fall, someone holding him, their hands moving up his arms at each peal of thunder or flash of lightning. Since then rain has always been soothing to him. He’d never felt as safe as he had in that moment and nothing since has put a stop to it. He and Elena used to kiss in the rain when they’d get caught out with the horses. It had rained when he’d taken Gwen down to Caerleon for a picnic and her shirt had gone see through and his phone had got wet and Merlin had laughed at him for ten minutes solid when he’d got back and told him.

He grits his teeth and makes sure the car is locked before he follows Gwen up the stairs and into the building. Thunder booms overhead and Gwen throws a glance at him as they wait for the elevator. Outside he can hear the wild groaning of the wind. He can practically hear Gwen’s inner monologue fighting to mention the weather as some form of ice breaker but he wills her to keep silent because damn, he just can’t right now. The elevator dings and lets them out and Gwen unlocks the house, Arthur following behind. He toes off his shoes without thinking and shirks out of his coat while Gwen pads into the kitchen and flicks on the kettle. She doesn’t speak and Arthur’s grateful as he crosses the room to the couch. He slumps down on the far end and stares dumbly at the blank television screen.

He can hear Gwen’s footsteps behind him a moment later and it’s no shock when he feels her fingers in his hair, her fingers cold in his damp strands.  
“Oh Arthur,” she murmurs and he sighs.

“I can’t stand him,” he growls.

“I know you can’t. But he’s Merlin’s friend.”

“I know.”

“Will’s really helped the last few months. He didn’t think and neither did Merlin. It was bound to happen eventually. You shouldn’t pick fights,” she says quietly and Arthur sighs long and weary. He knows, he does. It’s so damn frustrating. First Will, and now, now there’s this _Gwaine_ and they’ve both helped in ways that Arthur hasn’t been able to. Arthur got engaged and Merlin’s girlfriend disappeared right after their party, there’s no forgetting that. No matter how long it’s been since then.

“I know,” he says, leaning into her touch. “I do. I’m sorry. I’ll call him and apologise in the morning.”

“Good boy,” Gwen says and he knows she’s smiling.

“I’m going to have a shower and head to bed. Join me?” She asks.

He sighs and closes his eyes. He’s still angry and disappointed and he doesn’t like the idea of going to bed next to Gwen with this frustration still pounding in his veins.  
“I’ll come in soon,” he answers instead and Gwen sighs. She presses a kiss to his crown and he reaches back to take one of her hands and kisses the back of it.  
“I’m sorry,” he whispers against her skin and she strokes his hair one last time.

“I know,” she replies before she disappears towards the bathroom.

He’s still fuming as he falls asleep on the couch, not quite sure what he’s so angry about any more which seems to lead into dreams that he can’t quite understand either, so when he wakes up to silence he’s not sure what’s woken him. For a moment he’s not entirely sure where he is when he jerks back to consciousness, he doesn’t remember falling asleep and it can’t be too late because the lights are all still on. There’s quiet for a moment and he groans as he pulls himself off the couch, determined to follow his wife to bed and make his foul mood up to her in the morning after a good night’s sleep.

He doesn’t get the chance.

There’s a sharp rattling knock at the door and he realises this is what had woken him and not just the storm as his remaining frustration spikes for just a moment, just enough to fuel wrenching open the door. It’s not Morgana. It’s not Will. It’s not even Merlin.

His heart is suddenly pounding rather loudly in his ears.

“Arthur Pendragon?” one of the two uniformed police officers asks and the pounding is getting louder and he doesn’t know what to say or think or do because the pounding sounds like names and he can’t make any of them out – _MerlinMorganaLeonElenaElyanLanceMerlinMorganaLeonElenaElyanLanceMerlin –_

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid there’s been an accident,” the second one says. The pounding automatically gets louder.

“Who?” Arthur hears himself croak.

“Merlin Emrys and William Harris were struck by a falling tree near Ascetir Park earlier tonight.”  
Merlin.

Everything comes to a stop.

“Is – is he?” his voice doesn’t work properly. His brain either, he’s asking things without prompting, automatic pilot. But he has to know – _he has to know!_  
“Mr Emrys has you listed as his next of kin, Mr Pendragon. He is alive and was taken directly to Camelot Mercy Hospital. Do you have someone who can drive you?”  
He can’t quite figure out what he needs to do, his brain is still whirling and then he hears it. The sound of Gwen’s voice, Gwen, his Gwen.

“Arthur? What’s going on?” she’s asking, she’s _asking. Oh God._

He doesn’t know if he moves or if she does but all he knows is that he needs to hold her, needs to make sure she’s real.  
“Merlin – “ the sound is soft and keening and he barely realises it’s his until Gwen is clawing at him.

“Merlin – “ he says it again and again.

“Arthur, Arthur please – is he?” he feels her turn to the two officers still standing in his lounge room. Watching him fall apart.

“Merlin, is he…? What’s happened?”

“Mr Emrys’ car was struck by a falling tree near Ascetir Park. He’s being taken to Camelot Mercy, Ma’am.”

“Than-thankyou,” Gwen is saying and the two officers are nodding their sympathies. Arthur can’t work it out. It shouldn’t feel like this. But then again, he’s never had an emotional breakdown before.

“Arthur?” Gwen’s voice shatters him.

“We have to go, we have to be there,” he says and she nods.

“I’ll call Morgana. Arthur, Arthur, he’s going to be okay – “

Arthur feels himself nod, but his brain is still whirling, still scrambling for purchase and all he can think of is the snarling disappointment on Merlin’s face when he left the pub.

  
*

His left foot won’t stop tapping.

Out of everything, that’s the worst. It won’t stop. He’s painfully aware of how wide Gwen’s eyes are, how shining they are, of how quiet and scared she is and her grasp tight on his arm. He can keep his hands on her; he can hold her when she needs it again. He can ask – again- what’s happening.

But he can’t make his foot stop tapping.

Leon wouldn’t let him drive. He’s stupidly glad for his friend’s common sense, but all the same, he can’t help how useless it makes him feel, despite how numb he’s been ever since the knowledge settled into him. Ever since his mobile connected and he had to open his mouth and say it. Say the words.

His left foot won’t stop tapping.

The waiting room is overly bright. Its white washed and nothing stops moving and he shifts in his hard plastic chair, his foot twitching out of beat for a moment. Gwen’s grasp on him tightens and then relaxes when she realises he isn’t moving. He can feel her eyes on him. He tries not to look at the clock again. It’s been five hours since Merlin dragged Will out of the pub. Two since he found the cops on the other side of the door, Merlin’s fate in one hand, their hats in the other. He knows the numbers, but can’t really comprehend the time. Much like how he’s been watching the nurses walk briskly back and forth behind the desk, up and down the corridor, in and out of his line of sight. He watches them move but not comprehending why. He feels like everything is slipping.

It’s not the accident that’s stolen Merlin, it’s this damn place, Arthur finds himself thinking. He’s well aware of how erratic his thoughts are becoming, as he fights the strong urge to stand up and walk over to the nurses’ station and start shouting, demand to know _right now_ where Merlin is, what’s happening and why, _god dammit_ , he’s the CEO of Pendragon Incorporated! Doesn’t that _mean_ anything?!

Arthur knows his thoughts are running wild and that they don’t make sense, but he can’t figure out how to stop them.

He’s scared, absolutely terrified, and it’s such a new, alien feeling to him that he can’t figure out what to do to make it stop. He should be comforting Gwen, finding Morgana and Lancelot, somewhere in the hospital, demanding answers, calling Gwaine – Gwaine, the man he’s not even met but who makes Merlin _smile_. In the back of his head he knows exactly what he needs to do, but he simply doesn’t know how.

Outside, the wind has blown itself out.

  
*

 

The sun is peaking outside before anyone lets them see him.

Arthur has no idea what time it is, not in numbers. He doesn’t know how many hours it’s been, not anymore, he doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting in that damn waiting room, he gave up on that ages ago. He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care, not anymore.  
It all comes down to Merlin.

Merlin, Merlin, Merlin.

They let him in despite the fact Merlin’s only been settled in Recovery for twenty minutes and he shouldn’t really get any visitors until he’s admitted to ICU properly. But Arthur pulls strings and demands until they give him five minutes, no more. He leaves Gwen in the hallway with Morgana and Leon and he broaches the room alone.

It’s a long room, fitted out with a dozen or so beds, each with a cubicle all it’s own. Merlin is fourth along the wall and he’s tiny under the weight of the room and everything that it means. Arthur has been friends with him for years, years and years and he’s seen Merlin at his worst, but he’s never seen him like this. He looks _empty_. He’s battered and small, dwarfed by machines and plastic and when Arthur takes his hand, his right hand after a moment of silent convincing, he feels cold to the touch and Arthur feels himself break down. He all but collapses into the single chair by the bed and he holds on and cries like he’s never done before. Not for his father or anything, _anyone_ ; but this is Merlin, _Merlin_ whose existence is proven by this tempered steady beep that makes Arthur tremble.

He’s still alive, but he’s _cold_ and that, that is terrifying.

He’s lucky, they’d said, so damn lucky, but it doesn’t look that way. Merlin looks washed out under bruises that are flaring purple and blue down the side of his face, along his collar bones peeking out from under that ghastly hospital gown. His left arm still has to be set properly, the bones shattered down his wrist, but there’s nothing they can do, nothing until they’re sure he’s in the all clear. Until they’re sure he can withstand the stress of another operation, even if it’s just to reset his arm. They had to focus on his punctured lung and ruptured spleen and a fracture is nothing against the weight of stopping him bleeding out or god-forbid, stop breathing.

They were so close to losing him, but even holding on, holding onto him it doesn’t feel like he’s there. He feels too small, too cold and unresponsive in Arthur’s grasp. He’s too quiet. Out of everything, there’s that. He’s too quiet.

Arthur’s never been as scared as he is then. The words slip out without consent; they’re a quiet and desperate plea and he barely realises he says them until he just wants them answered.

“Please wake up,” he begs.

Merlin doesn’t hear him.

Nothing happens. The monitors don’t give an extra loud beep, Merlin doesn’t move, doesn’t stir at all and Arthur’s left sitting in the chair next to his bed, clutching Merlin’s hand between his own feeling more lost than he ever has before in his life, until the nurse comes back and tells him it’s time to leave.

  
*

 

It doesn’t get better.

Knowing he’s alive doesn’t make it better and despite it all, Merlin still seems to hang perilously close to the edge. They move him to the ICU, but they keep him sedated. A medically induced coma, they call it. To Arthur it feels like all the pain they’re trying to stop Merlin having to feel.

Despite the results he managed that first night, they keep a strict visitors timetable in the ICU and this time no one bends to his will, no matter how he rages, at the orderlies, at the nurses, at the doctors or at his lawyers. There’s an hour in the morning and an hour in the afternoon where they’ll let someone in and it’s one at a time.

They try and all take it in turns that first day. Time has just sort of blurred together but there’s still a disturbing sort of clarity in Arthur’s head, with all the looks of concern on his friend’s faces. He’s never seen Morgana so pale and stripped of her wit as when she stumbles out of the ICU. He’s never seen her give into her emotions so wholly to the point he has to look away when she seems to sag into Leon’s arms. She holds the front of his jumper and he wraps his arms around her and they stay there for the longest time, just holding each other and it’s the most alien thing in Arthur’s life.

This time, he’s the last to go in and perhaps waiting is his first mistake, because it’s just as bad if not worse now than it was the night before. Merlin’s still scarily pale and all but lifeless in his cubical. He’s reduced to this frail imitation of the vibrant man that Arthur’s known for years now.

He stumbles as he finally makes his way to the chair next to Merlin’s bed and everything sinks in once again. He can hear each breath Merlin takes; each breath that the machines give him – this forced inhale and exhale underlined by a tempered beep of his heart beating. It’s not as raw now as it had been last night, everything has sort of calmed a little. Well… Not so much calmed, as just sort of _settled._

He’s aware of what’s happened now. He knows what went wrong and he knows the consequences of it. They had to drive past the crash site to get to the bloody hospital with the small collection of bits and pieces they’ve brought so when he wakes up he’s not without some form of familiarity to hold onto: pencils and pens, battered copies of the Picture of Dorian Gray and Catch 22. Well-worn oversized t-shirts and pyjama bottoms all shoved into a bag underneath the bedside table. They spent fifteen minutes looking for his recent sketchbooks only to realise they had to have been in the damn car and then they’d had to drive past where it had all happened. Arthur’s seen the giant open wounded tree stump by the side of the road halfway down the park, standing out against the rest of the debris from the storm like a tower in a desert. He’s seen the glittering glass on the bitumen and the scraps of metal yet to be cleared away. He’s seen the remnants of the crash there and he’s staring at the remnants of the crash here; it’s horrifying and it feels like he can’t breathe.  
Will is dead, killed instantly and Merlin is stuck here, stuck in this tempered life with machines and paisley curtains and nurses that watch like hawks, because all of a sudden, in the middle of a bloody storm, the pair of them ran out of luck just as the wind brought down a tree on the side of the park.

The worst part is, the shell in front of him is not all _Merlin_. Since he was here last night they’ve cut his hair, gotten rid of his fringe to put stitches in his forehead. The doctor said they don’t know if he’ll get full use out of his hand again and just thinking about it makes it feel like there’s a bird trapped in Arthur’s chest, this panicking, fluttering, trapped bird as he stares down at Merlin’s left hand, wrapped in a temporary brace. But whether it’s reality or just his imagination, Arthur can still see the broken bones.  
“I don’t know what it is about you, Merlin,” he says suddenly, feeling each word stick to his tongue, unwilling to leave, but unwilling to stay.

“I don’t know. I’ve never been able to put my finger on it. Sometimes you say things and it’s like you’ve been saying them over and over again for centuries. Like you know exactly how to take care of me. You always _know,_ and I don’t. You always know just what to do or say, and now it’s my turn and _I don’t know_. I don’t know how to keep you safe. These things keep happening and I can’t make them stop. I can’t save you. I want to, oh how I want to, but I don’t know how. I’m so sorry, but I just don’t know how. But please, please – just, wake up.”

Merlin stays quiet and still, his breathing forced and alien, his skin cool to touch. There’s value in each part of Merlin that’s missing, and Arthur feels cheated as he takes up Merlin’s hand in his and brings it to his mouth in a soft kiss. He knows the value of things. He knows what the watch his father gave to him for his twenty first birthday is worth, and approximately how much it will be worth in ten years time. Especially if he gets rid of the other forty nine in existence.

He knows the worth of coming home early and making dinner before Gwen can think on it. He knows the worth of her smile. He knows the worth of letting Morgana be, of avoiding her riles and taunts. He knows the worth of Merlin’s smiles and the worth of his laughter and his mischievous winks. He knows the worth of his kindness and his anger and his art. He knows numbers and business and he knows just how much the worth of all those paintings Merlin’s done over the years are going to go up if Merlin doesn’t make it. If all this comes to a sudden bridling halt and Merlin follows his mother and Will and leaves Arthur to Gwen and Morgana and Leon and Elyan and Elena and Lance and it just _doesn’t feel right_ without Merlin’s name amongst them. It’s not right at all. But the fear is real and justified and a part of him doesn’t quite know what to do as he stumbles from the hospital room and Gwen rushes into his arms the same way that Morgana did Leon’s. For a moment he feels that same uselessness he felt after Freya left, but as he holds her, something else takes over. Something primal and distinct. An _itch_ , an itch to run, to run and hide or just, for god sake, just keep moving. Keep going so that he doesn’t have to think about it.

And that’s when he understands Freya’s disappearance; he understands Merlin’s fits and bursts of anxious movement. He understands the exhibit and a part of his brain almost comprehends the drinking.

But first and foremost he understands.

  
*

 

They spend that first day at the flat, the whole group of them, quiet and sombre, all but Arthur who knows he’s causing Gwen some form of alarm because he can’t quite stop moving. No one says a thing about Merlin in past tense. In fact they don’t speak at all and for that he’s grateful.

The next day Gwen calls the funeral home to take care of Will’s body on Merlin’s behalf, because damn him Merlin was his next of kin, just like Arthur is Merlin’s.

Arthur doesn’t go by the hospital. Instead he takes it upon himself to deal with the car and almost immediately wishes he hadn’t.

The man at the car yard is short and squat and disappears almost entirely into his parka and everything above it is almost completely defined by facial hair. Arthur knows what to expect the moment he arrives, after all the logistics of a tree falling on a car aren’t particularly hard to comprehend. But he has to hesitate when Beard-man shakes his head and tuts; he knows exactly what Arthur’s there for. All he has to say is _accident on Friday_ and Beard-man is leading him through the rows of cars, cars without wheels or bonnets or doors or windshields of every make or model Arthur can think of.

He’s so caught looking at everything else that when he stops behind Beard-Man it takes him a moment to realise what he’s looking at. The car is in pieces and Arthur has to fight the sudden urge to be sick.

It’s Merlin’s car. Or what’s left of it.

All the air runs out of him in a second and all he can do is stare at the remains of the rickety old blue Citroen. He’s vaguely aware of Beard-Man talking, but it’s just a faint buzzing. The roof is completely caved in, dented like something was trying to rip the car in two and only just didn’t manage it. The windshield is gone, the glass scattered through the seats. Both front doors are gone, and Arthur can see the dark stains on the seats like a horror film has gone to work on them and he has to turn away.

“There ain’t any chance of recoverin’ anything out of that poor little thing,” Beard-Man is saying and Arthur finds it difficult for a moment not to try and punch the man just to get him to stop talking. Merlin was in that. Merlin. His Merlin. _God_.

He somehow finds his voice.

“There was a, there should have been a backpack. Has that been – “ he trails off and Beard-Man nods.

“If there was anything in there it’ll be in the lockup back at the office.”

“Ok, well I’d like that back,” Arthur says and tries to avoid looking at it.

“What do you do to get rid of it?” Arthur asks and Beard Man shrugs.

“Hundred quid in admin fees to cube it,” he says, “insurance covers the rest.”  
Arthur nods.

Ten minutes later Beard-Man passes over a backpack and a picnic blanket and Merlin’s CD wallet.  
Arthur slams a hundred quid on the table and tells the man to cube the car.

He doesn’t look back.

 

*

 

He goes home after that and doesn’t say anything to Morgana right away, who is curled up on the couch when he gets there. She eyes him as he sits the backpack and CD wallet by the coat cupboard and simply toes his shoes off. Neither of them say a thing as he walks across the room to the liquor cabinet and takes out Uther’s 40 year old whiskey that he hasn’t actually touched since the afternoon of that blasted funeral nearly two years ago now. He takes two tumblers from the cupboard and goes over to sit next to his sister on the couch, pouring them two measures each.

“This is how Merlin got started, you know,” she says softly but she still picks up the glass. She doesn’t drink any of it, though.

“I know,” he answers. Neither of them speak for a while, just breathing in each other’s company. Arthur takes a haughty swallow of the whiskey and regrets it, but it’s a pale regret against the backdrop of the others swimming in his head. It’s a voluntary punishment and he needs that sort of control.

“Where’s Gwen?” he asks softly, after a while. There isn’t even the ticking of a damn clock to focus on because when he’s not desperate for an outside sound, usually he hates them. Usually Merlin’s quiet nattering is enough to fill the room.

“She took Lance out to the funeral home. They were looking at caskets.”

“Oh.“

“They were stopping by the hospital before they came back. She texted earlier. Said she wouldn’t be long.”

“Right.”

Morgana just looks down at her glass of whiskey and has this solemn look on her face, like she’s fighting something inside her and Arthur knows what that’s like. He knows how much it _writhes_ , and while they’ve never really been terribly close as siblings, he still wants to help. They’ve been friends for years, they share the same group and he genuinely enjoys her company; but they’ve never been _close_. Never share their secrets, their hopes and dreams and _feelings_ close. On occasion Morgana would tramp in and tell him off for doing something stupid, but they don’t share. It’s never been a two way street, really, and he needs that to change. He needs to know she’s okay.  
So he asks.

“Are you okay?”

It’s simple, straightforward.

Her expression shouldn’t crumple the way it does. She backtracks, tries to resume that usual calm mask, but he’s seen it now, he’s seen this lost, helpless look on her face and he can’t get rid of it.

“Hey,” he says uselessly, but before he knows it he’s sat his booze down and crawled up onto his knees and wrapped his arms tight around her. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s instigated a genuine hug from Morgana, and he can count on the other hand the amount she has, but they’re holding each other tight at that moment. They’re clinging like there’s nothing else for them to do, and maybe there isn’t.

He’s spent the afternoon picking up Merlin’s backpack he knows is full of his sketchbooks and graphite pencils from the wreck of the idiot’s rusty little car he’s had longer than Arthur’s known him. He’s spent the afternoon avoiding the hospital and trying to pretend that Merlin’s still in Ealdor, maybe, anywhere but where he is. Because Merlin trying to stop drinking is better than Merlin hooked up to a heart monitor to prove he’s still alive, and when Merlin was having issues with booze Morgana wasn’t holding him like she was going to come apart, her face pressed into his neck and her breath hitching.

Nothing is right these days.

Still, he’s not expecting it in the slightest when she starts whispering.

“It’s going to be okay, right? It’s all going to be okay?” she keeps whispering it like a question and he strokes her hair and wonders.  
“Yeah, course it is. He’s as stubborn as a mule.”

“What if it’s not just Merlin? Everything’s wrong, Arthur. Everything.”

“What?” he has to stop then, he has to hear this because she’s looking absolutely rattled to pieces and this is clearly why she’s on his couch waiting for his wife. This isn’t something he wants to hear, but it’s clearly something his sister needs to share.

“I don’t know if I want it, Arthur,” she says timidly as they break apart and just sit closely on the couch. His mind starts to reel long before she takes another deep breath and closes her eyes.

“What if I don’t want it? I’m pregnant, Arthur. I can’t just – I can’t just give it up. Or get rid of it. But I don’t know if I want it yet. I don’t know if I want to be a mother, Arthur – I’d be horrible. Absolutely horrible.”

It feels like being punched in the gut. _Baby. Morgana is having a baby._ Arthur just blinks and feels stupid and thick, like he’s underwater and his damn sister is just sitting there wringing her hands looking wretched and so damn rattled he doesn’t know what to do. So he acts on impulse and pulls her back into his arms and he holds her. Morgana. His sister is having a baby.

“You wouldn’t be horrible. You’d be fantastic, absolutely brilliant,” he whispers, meaning every word and praying, praying that she knows that.

“You’re not alone in this, Morgana,” he says, letting his mouth do the talking and by the way she’s shaking he doesn’t quite have a clue whether he’s doing harm or good, but he’s not quite sure how to stop. Because this is all too much. All of it. Can’t they have a break?

“I don’t know what to do,” she says, pressing her face into the material of his shirt on his shoulder and he runs his hand through her hair, her long dark hair and his brain throws an image of a startlingly beautiful child at him, all dark curls like Morgana and bright brown eyes like Leon and he clutches her harder.

“You don’t have to decide anything now, you don’t have to decide on your own,” he says.

And a small part of him, despite how he can barely stand the idea of Morgana telling anyone but him first, he can’t help but think that bloody Merlin would have been so much better at this than he is.

  
*

 

Considering his view of the man, it feels beyond strange – almost a betrayal – to find himself organising Will’s funeral. Even sharing the experience with Gwen, who seemed to get on with the other man during his visits to Camelot, doesn’t make it any better. Ealdor isn’t that far away and while Arthur can’t bear to leave Camelot in the days following the accident, Gwen takes Lance more than once on the trip, to talk to Will’s friends, his colleagues at the hardware store, his neighbours and the boys down at the local. When she tells him about her trip, two days before the funeral, it feels so impersonal he can’t sit still; he barely knew a thing about the man except that he was brash and hated Arthur just as much as Arthur disliked him. It doesn’t feel right, but beyond Merlin, there wasn’t anyone who knew Will well enough to organise his burial, and as far as Arthur is concerned there’s no one who knows Merlin better than them. Even if he knows he doesn’t know everything.

Still, it’s all down to Merlin that he sates himself with picking out the order of the funeral, who’s offered to speak, most of them on Merlin’s behalf, and then those from Ealdor who told Gwen that they would.

It’s strange and makes his skin itch to the point that he finds himself pacing the corridor outside ICU at eleven o’clock that night. He has no intention of barging his way in, he knows they wouldn’t let him and he doesn’t try. But he can’t stay at home and pretend that what they were doing was all right, and this is the closest he can get to Merlin.  
He’s there for twenty minutes before one of the nurses pokes her head out the door, looking intrigued.

“I’m not trying to come in. I know visiting times are over,” he tells her and her expression shifts.

“I’ve been warned about you lot,” she says with almost a soft smile.

“I had to get out,” he says, sharing more with her than he intends in those five words. Her smile softens out then, to something a little sad.

“And a hospital corridor was the best place to go?”

He feels as stupid as the comment suggests. It doesn’t stop him from turning around and walking back the other way once he reaches the wall.

“I have to help organise his friend’s funeral. They grew up together. Will’s parents are dead. All he had was Merlin and Merlin’s here because they got hit by a bloody _tree_ and now I have to give him the send off Merlin would have wanted. And I _hated him_.”

It’s a little too strong, he thinks. He didn’t hate Will, he just… he was jealous and Will was jealous of him and they’d never got on. So they’d stopped trying and let the bitterness sort of ferment into something uglier than it really had a right to be.

“I just – “ he sighs, running his hands through his hair and then he stops, midway between each side of the corridor.

“I needed to be with Merlin, just – just so he could help, I guess? And this is as close as I’ll get.”

He can’t tell what the nurse is thinking anymore, her expression is blank in a way that tells him it’s something she learned how to do on the job. You can’t let your emotions get to you in ICU he imagines. There’d be too many idiots like him running around causing hysterics; they didn’t need personal expressions making things worse.

She ducks her head back into ICU and Arthur sighs. Before he can do little more than turn around uselessly the door opens again fully.

“Come in for a bit, before any of us get caught by the second shift Doctors,” she says, all compassion and sympathy and his skin would be crawling if it didn’t mean he would be able to see Merlin.

He’s still unconscious and will be for a few days yet, the nurse tells him as he settles into the chair by Merlin’s bed. She fiddles with Merlin’s breathing tube for a moment and then adjusts his drip and pats Arthur on the shoulder.

“I’ll give you half an hour, love. You unload and tell this pretty boy of yours all about his poor friend’s last tahrah, alright? Then you gotta promise me you’ll head back home, okay?”  
He nods his affirmative and the woman smiles, petting him on the shoulder again.

“Alright, I’ll give you two some privacy then,” she says, pulling the curtains around Merlins’ cubicle shut.

It’s not much in the way of privacy. He can still hear everything else going on in the rest of the ward. It’s too noisy. Everywhere is too loud.

Except Merlin.

The idiot is as still as ever and he doesn’t blink or twitch as Arthur starts talking, but there’s this calm that settles into him that’s a little bit alien, but it’s soothing in a way he can’t dismiss at the moment. Not when he’s coiled so tight it takes reflection to realise how much of a danger he practically is.

Talking to a quiet Merlin about how Leon’s organised to have the entire funeral filmed for Merlin’s benefit later isn’t as stupid as he thought it would be. Neither is murmuring about how over his head he felt when Gwen asked him for final say on Will’s casket, whether the light mahogany or the dark would be better. They’re things that are actually important and Arthur’s never felt as overwhelmed in his life as he is now. It’s confounding, how settling it is just to talk and hold Merlin’s hand. Drink in the sight of him, as distressing a sight as it is, with his cheekbones sharper than they’ve been since Freya ran off, his skin pale and washed out, how spindly his fingers feel and the sharp, startling contrast of his hair and his lashes against his face. His lips cracked and pale around the alien clear plastic of the tube snaking down his throat, helping him breathe.

Stripping it all away, it’s Merlin and that’s just enough to make everything a little bit easier to handle.

But it doesn’t last. Will’s funeral is set on the Thursday morning and while the trip isn’t long, the whole process is excruciating. There’s a good turnout. There are less people than there was at Uther’s by half, but the difference is that the most important person is missing and that everyone there genuinely cares.

The pews in the small chapel on the cemetery grounds are nearly full, and for a moment Arthur thinks that maybe it’s just good country hospitality that has so many crowding into the booths, or curiosity, maybe; vile, vile curiosity. However there’s a piqued sadness in most people’s faces as he watches from the second row as people walk up to the casket and say their farewells. Gwen and Lance did a good job of the whole thing, he thinks. There are two easels standing on either side of the casket with a collage of photos from Will and Merlin’s facebook pages, cataloguing the young man’s life. It’s not complete – there are only so many pictures put together by a third party that anyone can handle, but it’s the best they can do. It feels impersonal, but there was no one else to do it. Will’s mother had died when he was twenty, Will’s father had been dead since he was thirteen, killed in an accident while on the job for some rich bastard who wore suits and looked down on people the same way Arthur did, as Will had courteously told him once. The closest Will had to family had been Merlin and Merlin’s mother, Hunith. Hunith, who had followed Will’s parents nearly two years after Merlin left for University, and Merlin, Merlin who was still hooked up to a machine and whose presence had been placed in Arthur’s hands. Next of Kin. Merlin had been Will’s, and Arthur had been Merlin’s.

They’d done their best.

It doesn’t feel like enough.

Arthur sits and waits through the deluge of everyone speaking who had said that they would. There are hesitant laughs in all the proper places, tears and an abundance of swearing that feels far more appropriate than anything else. He sits in the second row, with Gwen’s hand clasped tight in his and he listens, vaguely aware of Lance sitting on Gwen’s other side, Leon sitting in the row behind with a camera on a small tripod in the middle of the aisle, Morgana sitting next to him. His attention strays to Elena, Elyan and Percy who had stayed in Camelot in case anything went suddenly wrong and his mobile is a heavy weight in his pocket, almost as heavy a weight as the speech cards in the hand not clasping his wife.

The whole thing goes too quickly and all of a sudden he feels Gwen nudging him and nodding towards the plinth.

It’s not a long walk, but it feels wrong as he does it, feeling every person’s eyes on him and knowing that they’re all aware of how much he hated Will, how much he shouldn’t be standing up to read.

His voice cracks a little when he settles and opens his mouth to speak, but then he finds the camera and it all slams home. He’s here for Merlin. He’s here on Merlin’s behalf.  
“I shouldn’t be speaking to you today,” he says, almost in a rush and someone towards the back coughs.

“I shouldn’t be here. Up here, anyway. In fact, if Will knew I was here, he’d probably have two or three things to say about it, in the sort of language you have to cover children’s ears to protect them from.”

A tittering laugh rattles around the room.

“The truth is, the person who should be standing here, isn’t, so he sent me. Out of everyone in Will’s life, I think the one person he really wanted up here to talk about him to you all, is Merlin,” his voice cracks again on Merlin’s name and he feels the settling rush of the audience understanding. He wants to get down right then, he wants to get down and sit back next to Gwen and let someone else talk because he _shouldn’t be here_. But he can’t, he sees the camera again and that’s it. He has to stay, he has to finish.

“But Merlin can’t be here. Merlin and Will were inseparable as children. The stories I’ve been told and hinted at over the years are many, so it’s almost fitting that it was Merlin that Will was with to the last. Even if it’s unfair, so horribly, horribly unfair that the last is so soon, that Will died so young. So terribly unfair that Merlin can’t be here today, to celebrate a friend who was brash and foul mouthed and made Merlin laugh like no one else. I didn’t know Will very well, in fact, he disliked me just as much as I disliked him, but he was loyal and true and so good to Merlin that it pains me to be standing here, not just on Merlin’s behalf, but on my own. He lived life to his best, regardless of what others counted as impetuous and childish. He was a good man and it brings me great sadness to be here today.”

The details of Will’s life, sketched out in small stories of Merlin’s and hedged together with other’s own information is nothing on the bland monologue that had been his father’s eulogy. Will’s has _life_ , soul, gratification of a life well lived.

It still feels hollow to read.

But when he looks down at the camera once more as he concludes, and then briefly over at the small collection of his own friends, he knows he’s done right by being there, by reading out what Merlin should have.

He knows it was the right thing to do.

  
*

As they trickle away from the graveside Gwen and Lance go over to talk to several people they’d met when they’d come up previously to sort details, leaving Arthur to himself. It feels odd still being there and he’s already fighting the urge to find the car and head back to Camelot. Elena had promised to stay at the hospital and call if anything changed, as she’d only ever met Will a few times and hadn’t known him well. Arthur hadn’t known him well either, but they’d been a part of each other’s lives; important, if only in their shared conflict over Merlin.

This whole disaster still doesn’t exactly make sense, but a lot of his life doesn’t either. He’s long used to simply going through the motions and trying to make the best of his situations. Do the right thing as much as he can. Still, nothing much feels right about this whole situation. But he can’t give up. Not when Merlin needs him.

The cemetery grounds are small, barely an entire street block and those are small themselves. It doesn’t take very long to find Merlin’s mother. There are flowers on her grave from earlier in the week and Arthur bends down to pry the dead buds away. She deserves them fresh, but he hadn’t thought this through properly. He’s not sure who delivered them, there’s no card, just a bouquet of geraniums and baby’s breath pressed up against the granite headstone.

 

**Hunith Jane Emrys**   
**1961 - 2008**   
**Beloved Mother**

_Now the carnival is gone  
High above the dawn is waking_

 

He runs his fingers over the inscription of a grieving son to a mother Arthur has never met. He didn’t know Merlin at all when this woman died, but he saw the burden her death left behind and he’d tried in his own way to help soothe it and now, now Merlin is suffering again. Except this time Arthur can’t do anything. Not yet, anyway.  
But he will, when Merlin wakes up.

“I’ll take care of him, I promise,” he whispers. There’s no sign from above, no scatter of wind through the trees or sudden revelation, but Arthur likes to think that she heard him; much like how he likes to think every time he’s whispered faintly to his own mother.

Arthur casts a glance back towards Will’s open plot and there are still people milling around. Morgana, however, is walking towards him, wrapped in black swathes of cashmere and satin. He stands back up as Morgana settles beside him and for a moment neither of them speak, just look down at the gravestone in front of them.

“Did you ever meet her?” he asks.

“No,” Morgana says softly. “I heard Merlin talk to her on the phone and he talked about going home to see her. But I never actually met her. She died so suddenly.”

“Do you think she’ll take care of him?”

“She’ll look after Will.”

“That’s not who I meant.”

“I know who you meant, Arthur,” Morgana replies. “You don’t have to ask about Merlin. She’s still looking after him. It’s what mother’s do.”

“Oh?” he asks, glancing at her and checking whether the emphasis she’d put in her words was actually intentional. Surprisingly, she blushes and looks down at her feet.  
“I talked to Leon,” she says quietly and Arthur looks away to give her the privacy to speak. It’s an odd thing to do, really. But neither of them have been brilliant at truly sharing important things like this. They’re not open people by nature and any allowance is one best used to advantage.

“We’re going to keep it.”

“That’s good news,” he says, truly meaning it. He reaches out and grasps her hand, squeezing it gently and Morgana squeezes back.

“He asked me to marry him,” she says and Arthur squeezes tight involuntarily. Morgana laughs at him quietly.

“I told him to shove it back up his arse where it came from and ask me when he really meant it and not as an attempt to turn our bastard child legitimate.”

“Tell me you didn’t phrase it like that, Morgana,” Arthur groans and she laughs again, lightly, her voice filled with warmth.

“I didn’t. But he gets the idea.”

“Good,” he says, a beat too slow for it to really be an answer to Morgana’s last words but she doesn’t bring him up on it and they stand together in front of Hunith’s grave for a moment longer and then finally turn away.

“Come on,” Morgana says. “Time to head back to Camelot.”

  
*

 

They’ve taken Merlin off the ventilator when Arthur gets to the hospital later that day.

The ICU feels strange as he takes it all in. Merlin’s sketchbooks are still stacked on the cabinet beside the bed, waiting for him to open and use. There’s still packets of quavers and Haribo Star Mix tucked between the half a dozen little stuffed animals congealing at the bottom of Merlin’s cabinet, a small stuffed panda the newest addition that speaks of Elena’s earlier visit. There’s still a drip in his arm, a catheter sneaking under the sheets, his index finger capped with plastic leading to the heart monitor, keeping a steady rhythm. All that’s the same. But the tube, the horrible snaking tube is gone and the wave of relief is like a strong gust of wind through him.

Just three hours ago he was watching as they lowered Will’s bloody coffin into the ground and now more than ever Arthur just wants him to wake up. He absolutely hates this stasis they’ve been in for the last week more than anything else. It feels like Hell, like _he’s_ being tortured and it’s not particularly something he wants to try and discuss with anyone because how is this about him in the slightest?

But the idea of Merlin’s blue eyes staring at him, groggy and unfocussed is the only thing he’s really holding onto anymore.

So when the day nurse bustles in and he asks why the tube snaking down Merlin’s throat is gone and she starts talking, her nonsense is overwhelming right up until she mentions taking him off the sedatives, and well then, isn’t that a good thing, now Merlin? Arthur doesn’t quite believe what he’s hearing and has to ask her again.

“What did you say?” he asks, sounding dumb even to his own ears. The woman’s expression falters and she’s probably been in situations like this enough to know exactly what he’s asking her about even if his mouth can’t really form the words.

“Doctor Evans gave the okay to take him off the heavy sedatives, love. We should be getting to see those pretty blue peepers looking at us all in a few hours yet.”  
“He’s going to wake up?”

“If it all goes as it should, love, he should come round sometime later tonight.”

“Do you know when?”

“Whenever Doctor Evans is free, love. When he comes by and gives the all clear then we’ll know for sure, but we’ve been getting some good steady readings the last 24 hours. He should be okay.”

It’s like a balloon bursting. Merlin’s not even actually awake but just hearing it, hearing the fact from the nurse’s mouth that he’s going to wake up. He’s _going to wake up today_ is almost more than he can handle and it’s like all the air disappears out of his lungs and before he realises it, he’s laughing. He’s laughing like he can’t stop.  
The nurse just smiles at him and pats him on the arm and tells him she’ll be back later. For some reason today they don’t stare at him trying to get him to leave even before his hour is up. They leave him be. He has no idea how long he’s there for, just holding Merlin’s hand and waiting when finally the doors of the ICU swing open and the doctor walks over to the nurses’ station, his white coat swinging around his knees. Arthur watches him, somehow unable to draw his gaze away from him while he talks in whispers to the nurses around the station before the man finally nods one last time and makes for Merlin’s bed.

“So you’re the generous Mr Pendragon that has my hospital in an uproar,” the man says. He has a gentle face, rounded and almost well worn. His hair is all streaked with grey and white, his eyebrows fuzzy and overbearing his small eyes.

“You have my best friend in your care, Doctor, I like the assurance that he has the best looking after him.” He’s still yet to feel the two million pounds donated to the ICU out of his own pocket as anything but a just – if quick minded – decision. It was perhaps a little over the top, but since the check went through there’s been an easing in the sharp tongues with the nurses, which isn’t something to be particularly proud about. Just because he has money shouldn’t dictate people’s tact, especially in a ward like this one. All it’s done is put all this into a little bit of perspective for him.

He needs to get George to look into what sway PenInc has concerning the Camelot City Council and if he can do anything about sorting out Ascetir Park, and he needs to look into the charities the company donates to.

“We do our best regardless of the generosity of our patients next of kin, Mr Pendragon.”

“I know you do. All the same, I needed to do something.” _I couldn’t feel so helpless,_ he thinks, and after all, that’s what his father had done when he couldn’t solve something. Thrown money at it. One of his first lessons in business had been, if throwing money at it doesn’t work, then probably nothing would.

“Understandable, Mr Pendragon, and I’m not going to pretend we’re not grateful.”

“I’ll be grateful if you have good news.”

“We do,” the doctor smiles as he reaches for Merlin’s chart.

“Merlin has been doing very well. His chest tube has drained most of the fluid from his lungs, he’s showing good brain activity and there are no signs of infection at all. I’m going to give the order to reduce the sedatives he’s on and he should start waking up sometime later tonight.”

“So he’s going to be okay?”

“If he keeps to this road, Mr Pendragon, Merlin is going to be fine. If there’s no complications or bad reactions to the new drugs, then we’ll even move him into that private ward you demanded when he was admitted,” the doctor smiles. Before he realises it, Arthur’s back to laughing and smiling and it’s like a weight he hasn’t been able to find has shifted. There’s still a load there; there will be right up until the moment Merlin’s absolutely fine and there’s never any chance that something like this can ever happen again. There’ll probably be a load on his shoulders for the rest of his life, but some part of it has gone now. This irrepressible weight that’s been crushing him. It’s gone. Merlin’s going to be okay. If everything goes well, then he’s going to be okay. He’s going to wake up. He’s going to wake up today.

“Can I stay? Can I stay with him?” he asks and the doctor smiles.

“I think we can sway the rules just this once. Your friends will have to stick to the normal visiting times, but he should be responsive by the time that rolls around tomorrow anyway.”  
“Thank you,” Arthur gasps and the man smiles again before he walks away back to the nurses station. Arthur leans over and takes Merlin’s hand, bringing it up to his mouth to kiss the back of it.

“You better wake up, you idiot. You have no idea how much stress you’ve caused me this last few days. No idea at all,” he says, but he’s smiling like he can’t stop. And he doesn’t. Not even when he excuses himself ten minutes later to call Gwen.

She answers before the third ring and for a moment he can hear panic in her voice, almost like she thinks something is wrong, and then he can’t keep quiet any longer.  
“Arthur?”

“He’s going to wake up, Gwen,” he blusters and then starts laughing and it takes a moment for Gwen’s voice to actually connect in his head.

“What? Arthur, what do you mean?”

“The doctor came by. They’re taking him off the sedatives today. He’s going to wake up. They said he’s going to wake up _today_.” And then she’s laughing too.

The conversation doesn’t last as long as it probably should, they inadvertently work themselves up and Arthur has to pace up and down the corridor for ten minutes to stop feeling like he’s about to start hovering six inches off the linoleum. He goes into the men’s and sprays water in his face and tries to hold back the grin that keeps wanting to break out, because _damn_ , this is the best news he’s heard for a week. He doesn’t want to downplay Morgana’s baby, but Christ, this is Merlin. Merlin’s gonna be okay, he’s going to pull through and he’s going to be there when Arthur’s sister has a baby.

They’re all going to be okay.

Of course it’s not quite that simple, it’s hours before the nurses even start to do anything more than the routine check-up’s of Merlin’s vitals and talk idly to Arthur just so something goes into his brain beyond how many eyelashes Merlin has and roughly how long it’s been since the idiot stopped chewing his nails again.  
He turns his mobile back on twice in the space of the early evening, each time he steps outside for a little fresh air and to go to the bathroom. Each time there are new text messages, but there’s one in common from everyone – Morgana, Leon, Gwen, Elena, Lance, hell even Percy.

 

 **FROM: Harpy**  
15:17  
You better call me when  
he’s awake you toad.

 

It’s nearly eight o’clock at night when anything changes. The nurse from the other night has started, Alice, and she brings Arthur a coffee and asks him about Will’s funeral and then she checks Merlin’s stiches and wanders back to the nurses’ station.

Arthur settles back in his chair and sighs, holding the Styrofoam cup and enjoying the gentle warmth on his hands in the sterile controlled temperature.

Then he sees it, Merlin’s hand twitches, a quick jerk of his fingers that seems to spasm up his arm and Arthur nearly upends his coffee all over himself as he sits bolt upright.  
Merlin’s hand jerks again and a muscle twitches in his face, a crease forming between his eyebrows, like he’s concentrating on something only he can see. It takes a moment for his mouth to form into that confused frown Arthur’s seen somewhere between the third and fourth drink at two and three a.m. He nearly starts laughing as he sets his coffee on the wheeling table and leans forward.

“Merlin?” he asks and behind him he can hear movement near the nurses’ station, but he’s not particularly interested in Alice or the other girls, his focus is entirely on Merlin and the gentle moan that escapes his lips as his head shifts to the side.

“Merlin, come on you idiot, wake up – “ he says, half whisper, all plea, staring at Merlin’s expression, his fingers entwined with Merlin’s own, relishing the feel of his fingers holding back, as brief and reflex as the motions are.

“Sweetheart?” Alice says as she and one of the other girls - Becca - swarm around the bed and everything is sort of rushed and compressed after that.

“Sweetheart, can you open your eyes for me? Come on, Merlin, open up – “ Alice says, but Merlin just sighs and seems to fall asleep again.

All of a sudden Arthur’s heart is pounding in his throat, trying to climb out.

“Is he – “ Arthur manages and Alice’s expression softens as she leans over to shift Merlin’s pillows and check his IV.

“He’s alright, love. It’ll take him a few goes to come round. He might not recognise you’re here until sometime tomorrow, but he’ll be lucid eventually. I can’t promise you anything, but he’s got an angel or two on his shoulder, love. From everything we’ve tested he should be good as new in time. He might not remember what happened at all, the whole week might be gone, but he’s got a good shot and by the raucous you lot cause near every time you visit, he’s got a good bunch of friends to help him through.”

She’s gentle in explaining it all, and Arthur can’t help but think she might have been what Helen had been like if the poor woman hadn’t worked for Uther Pendragon for half her life. That gentle concern and no nonsense attitude firm and realised, without any sense of patronisation. He likes that about Alice, she tells him as it is, with enough compassion to help ease him through it without making him feel like an utter imbecile for not going through medical school or discovering any sense of actual empathy.

It’s the same sort of process late into the night. Every now and then Merlin’s hand clenches around Arthur’s and he seems to struggle towards consciousness, even managing to blearily blink at Arthur once around 11pm for a moment before sinking back into sleep with a desperate groan that makes Arthur start shaking afterwards. In the space of time where Merlin’s eyes had been open it was like nothing else in the world existed, and then once they were closed again everything crashes down.

He has to escape onto the balcony for a while after that, and almost lets Alice convince him to let Gwen come and get him. He doesn’t let her in the end, instead he texts everyone to let them know Merlin’s woken up briefly again, that he hasn’t been _awake_ but he’s getting there. He’s close.

It’s not until somewhere near 2am that Arthur meets Merlin’s gaze for the first time in a week and sees his friend looking back. He’s pretty sure he looks a little mad, the way he’s smiling and how his face aches with it, but it’s one step down from hysterical laughter again and that’s all well and good.

“Merlin?” he asks, softly, gently. Merlin makes a sound in the back of his throat and Alice isn’t far away. Merlin blinks slowly and Arthur watches as his eyes start to focus, never quite wavering from Arthur’s face. Merlin breathes in sharp gasps, even with the mask still over his face and his hand twitches again in Arthur’s hold.

“Sweetheart?” Alice asks softly drawing Merlin’s attention away.  
“Hey there, can you tell me your name, Sweetie?”

“Merl-in,” he croaks, breaking his name down into gasping syllables, but it makes Alice’s expression shift into a beaming smile.

“Well there Merlin, Sweetie, you’re at Camelot Mercy, okay? You’re in the ICU and your friend Arthur here’s been pestering us right ragged. Making sure we’re taking good care of you, okay?” she speaks slow and soft and despite her attempts to ensure Merlin understands, Arthur’s seen that expression on his face enough to know this is all too much for him. He shakes his head softly at Alice and the woman nods.

“I’ll be right over here if you need anything, okay Merlin?” she says, reaching down to pick up the call button and press it into Merlin’s hand even though she’s barely going to be four metres away, with a full view of the bed.

“You need anything you press down, okay darling? Right here,” she says and watches until Merlin nods a little.

His attention wafts back to Arthur then and despite only being awake for a minute Arthur can see it’s taxing him, that he’s almost asleep again. It’s still the most he’s been awake all night, drifting in and out of drowsy wakefulness, eyelids flickering and soft moans escaping his chapped lips.

This time Arthur can see his eyes and he can see that Merlin knows he’s there and that’s enough, even though it means he’s pretty much screwed. He’s not leaving tonight. They can get stuffed.

“You’re okay,” he says, staring into Merlin’s drowsy eyes and not looking away as he reaches out to gently touch Merlin’s cheek. His skin feels hot to the touch even though Arthur knows it’s as cool as he’s been the last week. The only difference is that Merlin’s awake.

“You’re okay and I’m not leaving, all right? I’m staying right here,” he says. Merlin’s eyelids droop again and then flicker open, like he’s forcing himself to stay awake. Arthur smiles a little.

“Puff,” Merlin croaks, barely more than a whisper but it steals into him and stops everything still.

Arthur tightens his hold on Merlin’s hand.

“Right here,” he promises and holds on until Merlin slips back asleep again.

He keeps his promise. He doesn’t leave until the next morning when Merlin’s awake for nearly twenty minutes at a time and the hallway is a raucous of Gwen and Morgana and Leon, Lance, Percy, Elyan and Elena. No one stays long and Alice makes Arthur leave after that, but Merlin’s been awake, so it’s not quite as bad as it was. It’s not better – but it’s not like the world’s coming down around him anymore.

The earthquake has finally stopped.

 

*

 

The earthquake has stopped, but there’s plenty of damage still to control and now he’s not quite so focused on Merlin being in a coma, it’s only now that Arthur actually notices more of it than could fit in his narrow tunnel.

He feels betrayed, almost, that he’s not the one who tells Merlin about Will. Morgana and Leon visit again in the afternoon. Merlin hadn’t asked what had happened to him beyond the nurses’ careful explanation of how he’d been in an accident while Arthur was at the hospital.

It’s a little alarming to be woken up by Morgana that night, standing on his doorstep with Leon behind her, looking distraught. The pair doesn’t really say a thing until they’re settled on the couch and Arthur’s still fighting the residual drowsiness that came with being woken up.

“We told him,” Morgana says after they get past the usual careful questions about how they’re all doing and the carefully constructed lies in answer.

“About Will,” Leon clarifies as Arthur blinks at them. A small part of him immediately scowls and he realises quickly that he’d assumed monopoly over Merlin’s progress. Merlin was his best friend, his clumsy oaf. The police called _him_ , because Merlin wanted him as his next of kin. Not Gwen or Morgana or Leon and Elena and Lance. It had been him and therefore everything would go through him.

Leon and Morgana had taken it upon themselves to tell him and damn right they should have.

Merlin had a right to know. But _he_ wanted to be the one to tell him.

“How did he take it?” he asks instead, trying to be pragmatic.

Leon’s expression crumbles and he looks at Morgana, almost beseeching her to save him.

“As best as he could,” she answers and Arthur’s stomach sinks. Did he wonder why Arthur hadn’t told him?

“We had to show him the video,” Leon murmurs and Arthur has to get up then. He has to get up and _do something_ because he was fucking asleep when they told Merlin the truth. A truth that he should have heard from Arthur.

“How, how is he?” he asks, after a moment, standing halfway between the lounge and the kitchen, Morgana watching him with her green hawk eyes and Leon halfway standing.  
“He was sleeping when we left.”

“Oh. Right.”

“He wants to know where Gwaine is.”

That just shatters everything. Everything he’s been holding onto suddenly seems like he shouldn’t have had the right at all. They told him about Will and it’s not even Arthur he wanted there. It’s someone that Arthur has never met.

“We were wondering if you’ve contacted him yet,” Morgana says with the air she does when she’s trying to be compassionate. She’s never quite narrowed it down, really. Not this way. She just looks icy, like she’s distancing herself. Which she probably is.

“I’ve never met him,” he replies and Morgana sighs, hanging her head. Leon leans back against the couch.  
“So he doesn’t know?”

“I didn’t know who to call. Merlin’s phone was crushed. I didn’t have a number.”

Even if I’d remembered to call him.

“Merlin said he’d gone out of town. That was weeks ago. Before the crash. He should be back.”  
“I don’t know how to get in contact with him.”

“Merlin met him through Percy, right? Percy should know.”

“Then why hasn’t Percy called him? Why isn’t he back?”

“He didn’t know to be back, Arthur.”

“That’s not good enough!” he roars, actually genuinely roars and the other two fall quiet. No one speaks for a moment and Arthur just stands in the middle of his lounge room pacing back and forth.

“I’ll talk to Percy, tomorrow,” Leon says then. “I’ll figure out if he’s talked to Gwaine. See where he is.”

“He better have a bloody good excuse,” Arthur growls. Morgana doesn’t say anything; she just sits there and watches Arthur as he starts stalking up and down the length of the couch again.

 

*

 

Leon calls him the next morning as he makes his trip to the hospital, which doesn’t serve to put Arthur in the best of moods.

“ _Percy can’t get in touch with him,_ ” Leon says when Arthur answers.

“Why not?”

“ _Gwaine goes on these holiday things or something, runs off for a few months then comes back to crash on Percy’s couch, work for six months and then disappears again. He’s off on another one of his trips and he doesn’t own a phone. Percy has no idea where he is. Only person that does would be Merlin. Apparently Gwaine quite likes him._ ”  
“Dammit,” Arthur swears and Leon makes a sound of agreement in the back of his throat. He thanks him and hangs up just as he pulls into the hospital car park, but he can’t shirk the stringent annoyance by the time he makes it up to the ICU. Alice isn’t on today, so he settles in for a short visit under the eye of the other, stricter nurses.  
Merlin’s sleeping when he gets there, still looking pale and peaky against the sheets, but there’s a high streak of colour to his cheeks that makes him look like he’s been out in the snow or he’s blushing. It’s strangely soothing, really, all things considered. He just sits quietly watching his friend like a creep, thinking. His thoughts must be too loud or something, because ten minutes into his watch, Merlin stirs.

“Hi,” he croaks and Arthur smiles, feeling the stretch of his lips overtake the otherwise constant desire to frown. Even in here, hooked up to machines that are somehow noisier than Merlin on a good day, the idiot’s smile is still as contagious as ever and Arthur can’t hold it against him.  
“Hey there,” he says, a little foolishly. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired. T’many drugs,” Merlin says, slurring a little. Arthur stops himself from immediately teasing.

“Appreciate them while you can,” he says instead and Merlin huffs, like a hesitant laugh.

“Could make a mint off em,” he says and then it’s Arthur’s turn.

“I’m sure you could.”

“M’very skilled.”

“You are not, you’re a complete mess at absolutely everything. I don’t know how you’ve survived this long,” Arthur says, talking without thinking and immediately regretting it. Merlin smiles though, bright and wide.

“There’s the prat I know,” he chuckles and Arthur blushes.  
“Idiot,” he huffs.  
“You love me,” Merlin quips. Arthur stills, because how true is that? He does. There’s no other word for the horrifying feeling that’s been one with him ever since that moment in the doorway.

“I do,” he says, without pause and Merlin’s expression softens, like he wasn’t expecting this to get serious again.

“I do, Merlin, more than I thought. You scared me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. But Jesus, Merlin, I was so scared I’d lose you. You’re the best friend I’ve got. I can’t lose that. Lose you.”

“You won’t,” Merlin says quietly. His eyes are wide and he looks shocked, disbelieving, like he’s not sure this is happening. Arthur laughs to himself for a moment and Merlin just stares.

“I’m okay, Arthur,” he says, earnestly, like he’s trying to disprove everything else in the room, the bruises and bandages, wires and blankets and machines and hovering, vengeful nurses.

“You’re not,” Arthur dissuades and Merlin’s expression darkens.

“You will be though; I’ll make sure of it.”

‘You don’t have to fix everything, Arthur. You’ve done enough.”

“I haven’t done anything at all. I’ve been here.”

“You were there,” Merlin says, cutting him off, determined to shut him up even though he sounds exhausted and the heart rate monitor in the corner starts blaring for a moment and Arthur’s certain he’s about to get kicked out.

“At Will’s – “ Merlin stops and takes a deep breath and Arthur stays quiet, unable to speak.

“You were there at Will’s funeral. You spoke for me. You were – I saw it. Leon showed me. He showed me what you said.”  
“Merlin – “

“No. Shut up, Arthur. You spoke for me. Everything else is secondary. You did that for me. That’s everything, Arthur. Everything.”

It’s hard to swallow, after that. The nurses glare at him and Merlin shoo’s them away; this young girl who looks determined to prove herself and yet has nothing on Merlin’s pale weary expression when she tries to take control. It’s not long before Arthur’s time will be up, and despite that, Merlin’s eyelids droop anyway.  
“Get some sleep, Merlin,” he says, gruffly. Merlin snorts softly, rolling his eyes.

“Bossy, Puff,” he chuckles and Arthur pauses as he stands up. Puff. _Puff_. That nickname, that blasted nickname that he still doesn’t understand but that makes this warmth uncurl in his gut every time he hears it. To think, the name would have died with Merlin and that fact is terrifying. The words spurt out of his mouth before he can catch them and yet when they’re there he can’t find the determination to get them back.

“I’ve never asked,” he says looking down at Merlin as the other man fights to stay awake.

“Asked what?” Merlin murmurs then and immediately a disparaging part of Arthur doesn’t want to know. Wants to keep it safe. But he can’t stop himself. Not now, not now he knows what it’s like to almost lose him and what it might be like to lose this, too.

“That nickname. Puff. Why?”

Merlin’s breath catches and then he breathes out and Arthur can see each movement, each shift of muscle. It’s nice.

“I came up with it when we firs’met. When you annoyed me. I called Will and spent half an hour bitching to him about Arthur Pratdragon. Will jus’ laughed at me. Arthur Puff Pratdragon. Y’were Pratdragon for a while. Then, jus’ Puff.”

“So it’s a nickname because I’m annoying?” he asks, softly, amused. Merlin grins.

“No,” he’s whispering now, drowsy and half asleep and Arthur knows he’s never going to hear this again if he doesn’t hear the answer now.

“S’cause you’re a little bit magic, Arthur,” he sighs and Arthur feels his body relax as Merlin slips back into sleep. There’s a strange feeling in his stomach after that, like trapped butterflies and it’s nothing he’s ever felt before. It doesn’t disappear.

_You’re a little bit magic –_

  
*

The next week is bizarre. Waking up seemed to be the major turning point in Merlin’s recovery, because from there he seems to jump forward in leaps and bounds. Not that his physical injuries don’t still make their impact known. The list had been long and the recovery, they’re warned, is only going to be longer. The shock to Merlin’s system has weakened him considerably and considering how thin the idiot was to begin with it certainly didn’t help. His cracked ribs make even breathing hard and the extensive bruising he has pretty much everywhere else certainly doesn’t help with everything else either. But waking up is the turning point that takes him off the critical list which is everything to Arthur and the rest of the group. He’s moved to a private ward late in the afternoon and the opening of its visiting hours immediately allows the girls to start decorating the place now that there’s a little more room to move about and store things beyond a single little bedside table with wheels.

Merlin seems to appreciate it, anyway, which is more than what Arthur can say about the amount of sheer mindless chatter that seems to go around and around like bees buzzing. But the hesitant smile on Merlin’s face the whole time makes it worth it. Everything the idiot says is a relief and Arthur treasures it, committing the sound of his voice to memory now that he knows it’s not something to take lightly.

Not that everything is all smiles, or at all easy. The road to Merlin’s full recovery is long, and nothing quite makes it so clear as the first time he tries to stand up, aided by two physiotherapists. In the end Gwen isn’t the only one crying and Merlin is absolutely exhausted and frustrated to boot.

“You can go, you know,” he growls at Arthur after Gwen kisses them both softly on the forehead and murmurs about going out for drinks and maybe something to eat.  
“Not on your life,” Arthur replies and Merlin’s scowl deepens even more.

“I don’t need you here,” he snaps, rubbing at his eyes and Arthur can see he’s going to be asleep again before Gwen can come back. That’s another thing Arthur has to come to terms with, all the sleeping. He knows there’s a difference now between sleep and a coma, but it looks so similar in Merlin’s pale, washed out face, that it’s hard to remember they’re past it.

“Yeah, well, who says I’m here for you?” he says, not quite sure what he means by it.

Merlin doesn’t seem to care, he snorts and closes his eyes, wincing as he tries to bunker himself down in the hospital bed, the damn thing creaking with every move he makes. Arthur gets up to help adjust the angle and as the damn thing lowers a little the tight expression between Merlin’s brows lessens a little. Merlin doesn’t open his eyes and he doesn’t say thank you, even though Arthur knows right then that he’s not quite asleep yet. That’s probably the first moment that Arthur gets an idea about what’s to come, the grim thanks they’re going to get for helping where Merlin doesn’t want to be helped. What’s worse than that, he finds, is that despite what he thought would be the turning point for the rest of them, everyone else seems to be more stressed now than they had been during that first week where Merlin had been unconscious. The broader visiting hours means that there’s not a great amount of time not spent at the hospital in the later portion of the day. What that means is that neither he nor Gwen has any time at night to cook; the both of them exhausted and too highly strung when they finally get home. They seem to be living off take away which is just serving to make them both more annoyed with everything in general. When Arthur forgets to bring home fresh chicken when Gwen decides one night to actually turn the stove on and eat something decent, they wind up having a fight that ends with Arthur in the empty second bedroom and neither of them sleeping a wink.

He’s not the only one feeling the strain at least. Morgana throws Leon out of the house no less than four times over the space of three days. Of course, she then calls him and demands him to come back immediately or all his things would follow him onto the lawn, a story that Merlin of all people tells Arthur the first time, still looking pasty and wan. After that, Arthur gives Leon a key to his flat and doesn’t mention it, even when some four hours later the scruffy man lets himself in and they sit on either ends of the couch pretending to pay attention to the television like they have time and time again over the years.

Lance seems to spend an inordinate amount of time on the phone to Gwen, Arthur notices, but then, Gwen seems to spend an inordinate amount of time on the phone with Morgana and Elena as well. She seems to spend more time talking to other people than she does talking to him. The only time they have to themselves over the next week is in bed, quiet and curled up around each other, pretending to sleep.

The worst part, however, is Gwaine. Or rather, his absence. It becomes increasingly frustrating that Merlin never really spoke of him at all, and still refuses to, the twat, because Merlin becomes increasingly withdrawn the longer it goes without any sort of communication from the man.

“If you were hurt, Arthur,” Morgana chastises after he swears a lot, raging about a man he’s never met. “If you were hurt and scared, wouldn’t you want someone who loves you?”  
“He does! He’s got us!” he scowls, annoyed at Morgana and Merlin and Gwaine and himself all at once. Annoyed at the way his sister just sighs; fixing him with a Look he doesn’t understand either.

“He needs someone who cares for him more than anyone, Arthur. He needs his boyfriend.”

“I still don’t see how we’re not enough.”

“That’s because you don’t see everything, little brother,” Morgana says and that’s the end of that. At least until the next time Arthur sees Merlin staring wistfully out the window, his lips turned into a sad little frown.

Merlin’s sitting up, looking bored, channel surfing when Arthur gets back to the hospital nearly four days later. There’s still a weariness to his shoulders that makes Arthur stop short and it doesn’t shift when Merlin lifts his head to see who’s standing in the doorway. He offers Arthur a small upturn of his lips that’s not really a smile and he doesn’t lift his head off the pillow. He does turn off the TV though.

“Hi,” he says as Arthur settles down in the chair. He looks tired, still pale and drawn and his eyes aren’t quite in focus but he’s awake and that’s blessing enough for Arthur every single time.

“Hi yourself,” Arthur replies and Merlin does smile then, though he can’t hide the wince.

“How’s it going?” he asks and Merlin sighs, turning his head to look up at the ceiling.

“Slowly,” he mumbles and Arthur nods, idly fixing the blanket that’s slipped past his hip. Merlin just follows his movement with his eyes.

“I guess it might keep on that way,” Arthur manages to say. He doesn’t know what it is, but he feels useless. Every time he’s here he feels completely useless. They can’t even _talk_ properly, not that there’s an abundance of trying. A small part of him can’t quite get past their last conversation, that anger that had escaped Merlin’s lips before he’d left the pub and disappeared off into the storm. Arthur can’t quite get past it, and he’s sure Merlin’s probably the same.

“They say I can go home soon. As long as I’ve got someone there to take care of me.”

He says it without too much emotion, but Arthur’s known him a long time. He knows Merlin. Knows his smiles and his frowns and his voice and he hears the underlying forlorn _bitterness_ and Arthur feels a flurry of panic in his stomach. This is a good thing, _good thing_. If he’s healed enough to go home then it’s going to be all right; Merlin’s going to be all right.

“Your room is still there, Merlin,” he says softly, without hesitation, and Merlin hangs his head. His hair’s not long enough anymore and Arthur revels for a split second in Merlin’s usual habit of hiding behind his fringe being averted, of being able to see – but he can’t forget _why_ and he can see how tight Merlin’s shut his eyes like he’s trying to hold back the world and that sick panic is back. That same cloying feeling of despair that had crawled into his blood stream somewhere between _“I’m sorry, Mr Pendragon_ \- “ and _“but there’s been an accident.“_

He has to stop himself from reaching out and taking Merlin’s hand. It shouldn’t be like this. He’s getting better. It shouldn’t be -

Merlin takes a deep breath in before he opens his eyes. He’s steeling himself up for something. It kills a little.

“You don’t have – “ is as far as he gets before Arthur _does_ hold his hand and he’s aware of how tight he is, but it gets Merlin’s pain dulled eyes staring straight into Arthur’s and it gets his friend’s pulse pounding under his own fingers and it’s enough for Arthur’s brain to sob _alive, he’s alive, thank fuck_ – before he even manages to get his mouth open.

“Don’t finish that sentence, Merlin. Please, don’t.”

Merlin nods and then breaks eye contact as he shifts down the bed, wincing as he moves. Arthur helps move the pillows a little until the pain in Merlin’s expression softens out and he’s horizontal. He still looks washed out under the bruises, insubstantial and not quite there and Arthur’s never really been afraid of someone disappearing before his eyes before, but he wouldn’t put it past Merlin.

“Do you need anything?” he asks as Merlin settles his cheek against his pillow and his eyes automatically flutter.

“No,” he breathes. Arthur just stares at Merlin’s mouth for a moment that seems to bleed longer than he thought and when he startles out of his trance, it’s to the feeling of the tension leaking out of Merlin’s fingers, joint by joint as he drifts off to sleep and the realisation that neither of them had let go.

  
*

 

But what little victory he had won at the hospital, he loses the moment he gets home.

He’s never really thought the world could come to a complete stop before.

But this is twice now that it feels like it has, like the whole world has just stopped and gone about smashing everything he has.  
This shouldn’t be happening.

It shouldn’t.

But it is.

Lance is the first to see him standing just inside the hallway and Arthur watches in vague, muted horror as the man jerks backwards, his eyes wide and horrified and then Arthur’s wife – his _wife_ – pulls away and turns. She squeaks and her face colours and she’s looking just as horrified with herself as Lance. But the truth of it is already standing there with them in the middle of the room. It’s there in the undone buttons down Gwen’s shirt and the bare skin where Lance’s jeans should be. In the flush of their cheeks and their kiss swollen lips.

It’s all there.

“Arthur, please – “ Gwen starts and he has to stop her. He has to stop her before she keeps going because otherwise he’s going to smash something. He can’t feel the anger but he knows it’s there, lurking on the other side of his skin. He shakes his head.

No one says anything.

Arthur can’t stop staring. It’s doing his head in, it’s _breaking him apart_ , but he can’t look away.

He wants to know and he doesn’t and the force of it all is so complex he can’t deal with it. He can’t.

He looks between the two of them, still breathing hard and glassy eyed and he can’t stay. He has to get away.

So he does.

He just turns and he walks back out the door to the sound of Gwen shouting his name in a way he would have killed to stop just an hour ago.  
Now, now it makes him feel ill and he doubles his pace. He has to get away.

He doesn’t even drive, he just walks. He walks and walks until his feet start to burn and then he keeps on going and when he looks up at his sister’s building it’s only then he acknowledges that he was going anywhere at all.

He doesn’t know what time it is and when he knocks on the door no one answers so he sits down on the steps and he waits. He waits and his foot jiggles and he forces himself not to think.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been there by the time Morgana stumbles up the stairs with her arms full of M&S bags. She takes one look at him and drops it all.

“Arthur?”

That stops him, stops his jiggling foot and his buzzing brain and he just looks at her.

 

“Did you know I didn’t think my life could get any worse right now. But then I walk in on Gwen with her tongue down Lance’s throat and it suddenly can.”  
“Oh Arthur,” Morgana sighs, dropping to her knees in front of him and the expression on her face just makes it all hurt even more.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says. And he doesn’t. This is something he’d talk to Merlin about. Merlin has always been his point of call. It’s not something he can bring up. Not something he can explain. How can he tell Merlin that Gwen’s betrayed him when he’s laid up in hospital and Will is dead?

“You need to talk to her, Arthur.”

“I can’t.”

It’s a knee-jerk reaction, a child’s reaction – _I can’t, I won’t, you can’t make me_ \- but it’s the truth. He doesn’t want to have to face her. Look her in the eyes and try and see something that he just can’t anymore. He knows something’s broken. Some part of him that’s always been stuck on that day all those years ago when Merlin told him that Gwen was nice and Lance was nice and that he, Arthur, wasn’t. It almost makes him want to cry now because how is this fair? How have they come to this? Gwen, his sweet Gwen who could never hurt a fly... and damn honourable Lance.

In a way they almost deserve each other. In some other world they never broke up, Lance never left and Gwen never turned to Arthur and Arthur never asked her to marry him surrounded by candles that Merlin lit so he’d have time to go and get her without leaving his house to burn down, candles that Merlin had put out while they were laughing and celebrating in the removal of each piece of their clothing one at a time. In some other world this isn’t happening, this whole blasted month isn’t happening and he envies that other world so much it burns.

“You can stay here, Arthur. For as long as you like,” Morgana says, reaching up to brush his cheek in the oddest form of emotion he can remember from his sister. Even when their father died she had never been this brazen about her love for him. Because it has to be, it has to be love because they’re family.

“But you need to see her. You need to talk this out,” she continues and he knows she’s right, because that’s Morgana. His sister has never backed down from what she thinks is the right course. She never backed down from their father and she’s never backed down from him and he knows he needs her to stay stoic for him now because so much else is in flux. He needs one thing to stay. He needs something to rely on and Morgana’s hope, Morgana’s baby is the only good thing that seems to be happening.

“I need to go back to the apartment. I need to stay there. Merlin, Merlin’s being signed out day after tomorrow. He has to stay with me,” he croaks.

“Then you go back and you figure this out,” she says with all the conviction Arthur can handle. He closes his eyes and he just breathes for a moment because this truly is too much.  
But then Morgana drives him back to his flat, the flat he’s had since he first moved out of home. The flat that his father bought outright because he’d be damned if his children were going to be living in student housing, even if Camelot University was the most prestigious university in the country with a demanding list of entry requirements and standards of living. He had lived there alone and then he had lived there with Merlin until Merlin had moved out with Freya and then there had been Gwen, Gwen when they were just together and then Gwen when they were engaged and then Gwen when they were married and now… now he didn’t have a clue.

The lights are all on when they pull up out the front and Morgana doesn’t say anything for which he’s grateful, his stomach is writhing like it’s full of snakes and he still has no idea what he’s going to say. What he’s going to do because every time he tries to think on it he just wants to start breaking things or yelling and while potentially cathartic for a moment, the logical part of his brain knows it’s not going to solve a thing.

He sort of wishes it would because the idea of looking at her makes him want to turn around again and if Lance is still there then he doesn’t actually know if he’s going to be able to hold back from releasing everything that’s been building up from the moment Merlin refused to wake up that moment in Recovery when Arthur asked him to.

In the end, everything, every possibility he’s gone through goes completely out the window the moment he opens the door.

She’s sitting on the couch wringing her hands and she’s alone. She’s as beautiful as she’s ever been but there’s this knot in his chest where that bursting pride of mine used to be.  
“Guinevere,” he says, vaguely aware of how cracked and hollow his voice sounds.

She just bites her lip and stands up and it feels like a fight then. They’re both standing at other ends of the lounge room like a stand off, except neither of them say a thing.  
In the end her guilt gets to her.

He can see it in her eyes.

“Arthur – “

“Don’t.” he cuts her off before he realises he’s opened his mouth and his voice is sharp and desperate and she chokes on a sob in her throat and looks down.

“I don’t understand,” he says finally and he feels as lost as ever when she looks up at him, her eyes wide and glassy, her cheeks tear stained.

“I don’t understand. We were happy. I felt it. Didn’t you? We were happy; I know we were. Weren’t we?”

“Yes,” she gasps and it’s not enough. It’s not.

“Then tell me, tell me, _please,_ because _I don’t understand._ Why? Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“It’s _hard_ , Arthur. We were just talking. I was so happy that Merlin was getting out and he was so nice. I don’t know what happened. I swear I’ve never done anything before. It just happened.”

“It just happened. Just happened. Do you have any idea how heartbreaking it is to see _what ‘just happened’?_ ” he’s shouting now, he can hear himself but he can’t stop it. Gwen’s crying, she’s crying, her cheeks glistening and he can’t make himself move. Not when they’re like this, so at odds, and they are now. She’s just as desperate as he is.  
“Please, Arthur, you have to understand, it’s been two weeks since I looked you in the eye and seen you here. You’re always with Merlin even if he’s not in the room, you’re still worrying about him and it’s like you’re not here anymore. It’s like you’re not mine. I know it’s selfish but we barely talk and when we do it’s like you’re looking right through me and I can’t bear it. I can’t.”

“So you took to sleeping with Lance instead?” he’s being cruel. He knows he is. He just can’t find it in himself to care. Can’t find it in himself to understand even though he knows somewhere inside that she’s right, that he’s been ignoring her. It’s only been a fortnight, but it’s been the hardest fortnight of his life and he’s shut her out. Because Merlin’s needed him. He’s needed someone and his boyfriend’s not shown up. Merlin had been _so happy_ and now Will’s gone and it burns that this is where they end up because of that. Because Arthur can’t handle the idea of Merlin being alone and Gwen must feel the same about herself.

“No!” Gwen wails and it used to tear Arthur up inside to see her face screwed up like that, like there was something ripping her apart. Now he almost feels glad for it, righteous that she actually feels something for what she’s done. Done to him. He can’t get rid of the sight of her curled in Lance’s arms, pressed against him like she fits, her lips pressed to his and how tender it had looked.

He wants to gauge out his own eyes for a moment before he forcibly shelves his irrationality.

Thankfully his voice is calm when he speaks.

“Then what, Gwen, what?”

“This was the first time, I swear. It was a mistake. I’m sorry, Arthur. I am. I’m so sorry.”

Except Arthur remembers Uni all too well, he remembers Gwen and Lance’s brief relationship right before he had to go back to Spain and Gwen turned to him. Arthur still remembers and it burns, that he was just a stand in. After all this time he’s just been a stand in.

He shakes his head and realises he can’t face her anymore. He just can’t.

“I need you to go,” he hears himself say and at her shocked expression he fights to keep his face straight.

“I can’t have you here. I’d go myself, but I need to look after Merlin.”

Gwen sniffs and continues to cry but she nods and Arthur finds he can no longer stay in the same room. He ends up in Merlin’s room, nursing his head in his hands and he tries not to listen when Gwen leaves, the sound of the front door echoing in the suddenly empty flat.  
Strangely, he doesn’t feel anything at all.

That comes later.

 

*


	9. Part Nine

*

 

****Part Nine  
*  
 _Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does.  
Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up. _  
James A. Baldwin

*

 

He doesn’t know quite what he’d do without Morgana in the days after Gwen leaves. She’s on his doorstep the morning after and she doesn’t ask anything of him, she just helps him sort out the flat. She drives when they head over to Merlin’s apartment for more of his clothes and books and she’s back the next morning too, barging in through his front door in the morning and waiting, waiting out his panic that he hasn’t got everything they might need, waiting out his fear, his annoyance at the garage when they stop for petrol, she waits while he and Merlin bicker aimlessly while they wait for the doctor and she waits for Merlin’s release.

Dealing with Merlin’s release is longer than Arthur expected, but it sort of sits rather well with Arthur’s own concerns as he listens to the doctor tell him what Merlin can and can’t do, trying to ignore Merlin frowning and pouting on the bed in front of them and thankful for Morgana standing quietly in the corner.

Arthur pockets Merlin’s prescriptions and nods when the nurses explain how to help Merlin to stand up without impeding on both their dignity too much. They’re manoeuvres he’s been watching for the last week, and are semi-familiar, but the look on Merlin’s face tells him well enough that Merlin’s not looking forward to having Arthur be the one helping him to piss. There really is a surprising lack of dignity his friend is going to possess by the end of all this, but Arthur really can’t care much. He’ll fucking help Merlin piss and shower for as long as he bloody well needs it if it means he’s still got the idiot to bicker with and gets just one of those tired smiles back.

Merlin complains all the way out the hospital, whinging about the indignity of the wheelchair, but sort of undermining it all by saying he sort of wants to have one to keep anyway. More for when he’s better and he can do more than stand up before he’s knackered beyond belief, but it’d be fun all the same. Arthur files that away for later. A wheelchair’s not really conducive to the flat – but if things get too difficult they could open up Pendragon Manor, with its long hallways and large rooms.

It’s not something he’d like to do, but it’s an option.

Morgana helps Merlin into the back of Arthur’s Lexus while Arthur thanks the nurses again one last time and puts Merlin’s few belongings into the boot.

Morgana’s back in the driver’s seat when he goes around the front and his casual swearing seems amusing enough to Merlin where he’s slumped against the window. Arthur takes one look at Merlin’s pale face and almost makes to get out and drag the idiot back inside until he’s stronger. But he makes the mistake of looking at Morgana and the look on her face curbs his inhibitions and he keeps them to himself.

“He’ll be okay,” Morgana says softly and Arthur knows that Merlin probably heard her as she starts the engine and checks the mirrors. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t really focus on much else beyond the reflection on his sun visor he’s got of Merlin curled up against the window looking clammy and softly snoring. He doesn’t even register the indignity of having his sister drive his car, he just sort of floats.

So much has changed lately, he’s still scrambling for purchase and now, now he has to help Merlin on top of it all and for a moment he thinks maybe he’s taken on too much. Maybe he should have actually thought through a stay-in nurse before he’d slammed the notion down completely. It had been simple when it had been him and Gwen at the flat, but now… now on his own… it’s not quite so simple.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he croaks and for a moment he can’t believe that he’s actually said it, right up until Morgana takes one hand off the wheel and reaches over to take his hand in hers. She gives it a gentle squeeze and looks at him briefly.

Her wide green eyes are more than enough.

“You can, Arthur. We can. We’ll take care of him. All of us. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs and she offers him a timid smile. They’re the same words he gave to her when she told him about the baby. It’s stupidly comforting, the fact she memorised them.

“He’ll be okay,” she says and Arthur looks at Merlin in the mirror again.

Yeah. He will be.

Arthur will make sure of it.

 

*

 

And Morgana is right.

It is a little bit too much for him after the first day. The theory and even the thought of helping Merlin in the most basic things is very different to the startling reality, and while he _has_ seen Merlin starkers before (on a number of occasions) he’s never really had to help him take his pants off, or worse yet, help him down into the chair for the shower that he had George buy, along with a whole host of other things that the hospital seemed to suggest might be helpful in the days coming. And they are, the chair is a godsend, because Arthur could barely keep up with Merlin’s desperation to actually get properly clean ¬ _for the first time in two weeks, you prat. Sponge baths are one thing, but I bloody well want a proper shower, I smell like a hobo._

However, the walker is more hindrance than help, not at all made any better by Merlin’s decisive hatred of the thing the moment he’d laid eyes on it. He doesn’t argue about the extra pillows for the couch, which are just handy and mean that they don’t have to disturb the nest Merlin makes out of his bed. Similarly, there’s practically a full medical kit in each room, which Merlin eyes sadly, but doesn’t say anything.

The walker, however, is the worst part of the whole thing, quickly followed by the diet restrictions that haven’t lessened between what he’d been allowed at the hospital and what he is at home. Arthur knows he’s jumped in with both feet, throwing money any way they could possibly need, but he relishes the distractions more than Merlin appreciates any of the help. But it doesn’t clue him into everything. The whole experience is draining in a way that Arthur’s not entirely prepared for, because while Merlin is well enough to function outside of a hospital environment, he’s not well enough to function alone. His limbs are weak from immobility and the combination of pain and drugs sap his strength and make him irritable. Arthur knows he’d be just as bad, if not worse if their situations were reversed, so he gives everything Merlin desires, that first day. But he can’t help but feel a rush of relief when the next day, before he’s even worked up the courage to wake Merlin up, there’s a knock at the door. It opens before he gets the chance to walk halfway across the room and all of a sudden Leon shuffles his way inside with carrier bags from ASDA, followed by a hulking bulk that reveals itself to be Percy and taking up the back, Morgana, holding nothing at all, but looking prim and well put together. Arthur feels like a mess and the day has barely started. The others seem to understand.

Morgana kisses his cheek hello, and pats his arm but she doesn’t say a thing. She just looks at him and he squirms and the boys start to unburden themselves in the kitchen and he gets distracted.

“I’ll go wake Merlin up,” Morgana says behind him and he nods, thanking her without words. He can’t find them all of a sudden.

Leon has control over the fridge, unloading more ready-meals than Arthur’s freezer probably has room for, while Percy’s moved towards the TV and is unpacking something with a long length of cable out of another bag. Arthur feels useless, standing in the middle of his lounge room amongst an odd assortment of things that belong to him and Gwen and feeling alien because what’s left of Gwen’s things are out of place now amongst a melee of things that once again belong to Merlin.

Merlin, thankfully, hasn’t said anything about Gwen’s sudden departure. Arthur hasn’t told him, but he’s pretty sure if Gwen hadn’t been around to the hospital before Arthur had picked Merlin up, then Morgana would have taken care of it. It’s reached the same conclusion anyway, because there had been this look in Merlin’s eyes the night before when he’d found one of Gwen’s jumpers behind a cushion on the couch that he clearly knows what’s happened. Still, Arthur is glad that he hasn’t asked because this all feels like a precipice and he’s desperate not to tumble over the edge.

Leon is still putting things into the cupboard and Percy is kneeling in front of the television skipping through video files randomly when Arthur excuses himself and heads towards Merlin’s door. It’s open a crack and he’s about to open it and see if they need help when he hears Morgana’s voice softly echoing. He stops where he is.

“You just need to focus on getting better, Merlin, we’re going to do everything we need to make sure everyone gets through this. You just need to focus on you.”  
“Morgana, Gwen left two days ago and Arthur’s looking after _me_.”

“Don’t you feel guilty for a second,” Morgana scolds. “Arthur loves you. He might have a bizarre way of showing it sometimes, but he does and what Gwen did was wrong. She’s hurt him and that’s unforgivable, but if anything is going to help him it’s you. Even if that means he has to spend the next six weeks making sure you don’t need help in the shower or getting off the toilet. You need help, Merlin, it might be hard to admit it, but you do and we’re here for you, just as if our places were switched. You can’t say for a second that if it was the other way around you wouldn’t be as hard to get rid of as a fly. Not for me or for Percy or Leon or Arthur. You can’t tell me for a second that if it was Arthur who was in that accident instead of you, Merlin, that you wouldn’t be doing exactly the same things my brother is – “

He can’t keep listening after that, and he skulks away back to the kitchen to annoy Leon and see what’s occupying his cupboards, because as innocent a pep talk as their conversation had been, it was still vulnerable and private. Morgana might have been trivial about it, but privacy is something Arthur knows Merlin is going to value more than ever, considering the way they’d handled the night before. But while his sister hadn’t understood that part of Merlin’s recovery quite yet, she was right with some of the other things she’s said. Namely that they were all going to be there for each other. That was why his house was full, really. Leon and Morgana and Percy, stocking Arthur’s cupboards and making sure they were coping. Even if it was only day two, Arthur appreciates it all the same.

It’s another fifteen minutes before Morgana leads Merlin out into the lounge, Merlin leaning on her heavily and each step taking everything out of him.  
“Don’t you dare touch me, Pendragon,” Merlin pants at Arthur, as he gets up to help when they first appear. Arthur takes a few steps back and Leon and Percy do a much better job at pretending not to watch Merlin’s progress across the room than Arthur does. He needs his pain meds again by the time they get him settled and he looks pallid and too exhausted to even be annoyed at Arthur’s ‘instant hovering’ as Morgana laughs.

The day is simple, though, like what they used to do years ago. The only real difference is that Gwen is missing and so is Lance, Percy taking their spot on the floor. Everyone else is curled up on the couches watching the television and making obscene, insane, completely irrelevant comments depending on what they’re looking at. It’s nice, just the group of them, everyone determined to make the most out of it. Ignore the past and its implications. Unsurprisingly Merlin falls asleep first, forty minutes into Iron Man. Everyone else just keeps watching, and if they all glance at Merlin every time they reach for the popcorn bowl, then no one else comments on it, because dammit, he’s special and for the first time Arthur feels like he isn’t alone. Like it doesn’t matter that he still can’t quite get over the terror that Merlin could have slipped through their fingers, because that fact is written in everyone else’s behaviour too.

It’s okay, and for the first time, Arthur truly believes it might all turn out okay in the end.

 

*

 

It’s just past midday the next day when there’s a panicked, never-ending rattle at Arthur’s front door. He doesn’t quite know what to do when he opens it and the first thing he thinks when he takes in the man on the other side is that he has no idea why there’s a homeless guy on his doorstep. But then Homeless stares right at Arthur and there’s this tight anxiety all over his face that beats Arthur senseless.

“Merlin, is Merlin here? Tell me this is the right address,” he says with this gruff desperation in his voice. It’s disconcerting, but he clearly knows and Arthur’s never seen Homeless before in his life, which means he can only be one person.

“Are you Gwaine?” he asks and Homeless perks up.

“I see my reputation precedes me. Is he here? He wasn’t at home. Percy said he was with you. Is he?”

“He’s here,” Arthur says, trying to quell this sick welling emotion that’s pooling in his stomach that’s all arrogance and judgement and jealousy in a delightful mix.  
He holds the door open wide and Gwaine walks in, immediately turning to take in the place. Arthur’s first Homeless impression slinks away. It’s not that Gwaine doesn’t look unkempt, because he does, he really does, but it’s more in a way that says he’s been running his hands through his long hair more than he should, his clothes are old and rumpled, travel worn.

“You were out of town,” Arthur accuses quietly.

“Of course I was out of town. Where is he?” Gwaine replies quickly, still looking around. Arthur glances at the couch. It’s empty, then the gap in his memory fills and he points towards Merlin’s bedroom.

“Thanks,” Gwaine says but he doesn’t wait any longer, he marches across the room and knocks briefly before throwing the door open. From his position Arthur catches sight of Merlin drowsily lifting his head up and then there’s a slow smile rising up before the door slams shut and Arthur’s in his own living room, feeling suddenly, insubordinately alone.

 

*

  
It’s nearly dark by the time Gwaine finally comes out of the bedroom. He looks more worn than when he entered and there’s something else to it, something that if Arthur was hard pressed to name he’d say the other man looked haunted.

It’s a feeling he knows.

Arthur looks up from his place at the table and meet’s Gwaine’s eyes. The other man sighs and makes a grand effort walking across the room before slumping into the chair next to Arthur.

“How is he?” Arthur asks, feeling awkward and unsettled. He doesn’t quite know what to make of the man yet; all he has are the duelling emotions battling out in his head. Gwaine is the bastard who’s made Merlin smile again, but where the fuck was he when Merlin needed him? The more he thinks on it, staring at the man responsible the more it feels like he’s simmering, ready to boil and about to explode.

“He’s asleep now. He knackered himself out crying.”

That nearly sets Arthur off and he cracks his knuckles without realising. When he looks up Gwaine is staring at Arthur’s hands.

“Thank you,” Gwaine says before Arthur has a chance to translate his anger into words. The sentiment startles him and he narrows his gaze as he stares at the other man. Gwaine looks up and meets him head on. He doesn’t flinch or look away.

“For looking after him. I didn’t know. If I did I would have been here in a second.”

For a moment Arthur almost thinks that Gwaine isn’t trying to placate him, to stop him breaking his legs for leaving Merlin without a word for over a fortnight while he’s been in the hospital. While his whole world came apart. For a moment Arthur almost thinks the man’s asking him for forgiveness.

“Where were you?”

“Back home. Ireland. Went to see me Ma. Pay my dues and make amends and all that.”

“And they don’t have phones in Ireland?”

Gwaine snorts, a dry, derogative chuckle.

“Never had much time for them, before Merlin I didn’t have any need for one.” He stops for a moment, letting the sound of his voice settle, twisting his fingers between each other before he glances up at Arthur again and keeps talking, like he’s answering another of Arthur’s questions.

“Merlin was emailing. He’d email me every two days or so and I’d send him postcards. I’d pick them up everywhere and just post ‘em. I wasn’t back home then. I started out in England. Worked me way up through London and Manchester and up to Edinburgh then over to Glasgow on me bike an’ then over the creek. I wouldn’t have access to the net without searching down a bloody internet café thing. Which is why I stuck to postcards. His emails would sort of bunch up so I’d have a bit to read. Last I heard from him he said he was meeting up with Will an’ going to see if you lot wanted to go out for a drink. I guess that was the same day. When I checked in once I got to me Mam’s and we sorted our shit out, it’d been a few days and there wasn’t anything. I wasn’t too fussed, he said in his last one it might be a few, so I left it. Then I hadn’t heard from him for a week, then a week and a half and I started getting anxious. There was nothing and nothing and I even went so far as to call him a few times but it kept going to voicemail. I shoulda known something was wrong but all I did was fucking sulk for a while. Moped around the place like a wallflower. I threw me towel in and called Percival. He told me to get on a fucking plane back here now, so I sold me bike for a ticket an’ here I am.”

Arthur feels his anger make a bid to settle, but he doesn’t want it to. He wants to hold onto it, make the bloody man suffer the way he has because this is _Merlin_ , Merlin whose car got nearly torn in half and whose left hand is in a cast for at least eight weeks and for so long, so damn long they were afraid they were going to lose him and the whole time this bloody Gwaine didn’t know a thing. He was in Ireland, paying his dues and _sulking_ while Merlin was suffering.

But there’s an aching weight in the slump of the man’s shoulders that makes another bid to pin his anger back and Arthur sighs, long and low in an attempt to calm down. To stop everything feeling like it’s about to come hurling out of his mouth at once, physically and metaphorically.

“He missed you,” is all Arthur can croak eventually and Gwaine’s expression looks pained.

“I missed him,” he says and then goes quiet for a moment. Arthur doesn’t interrupt; he can see the words fighting for place on Gwaine’s tongue long before the man gives them reprieve.

“I only went up there cause of Merlin. He made me see, see that family is family and it’s worth holding onto, no matter what. I went to see me Ma, tell her about him. So maybe next time I could take him with me. He’d like it up there.”

After that, Arthur can’t quite hate him as much as he’d like, because he knows Merlin _would._

 

*

 

Almost immediately Arthur feels shunted aside in the wake of Gwaine’s arrival. Merlin’s only been out of hospital a couple of days, but he’s staying in Arthur’s house and it was Arthur’s signature on the release forms. It was Arthur who had set up the on-call rehabilitation nurses that come to Merlin stead of making them go into the hospital; its Arthur Merlin had to call for in the middle of the night because he needed to pee and couldn’t quite lever himself off the bed because his pain meds had worn off. It’s Arthur who learned everything the nurses had to teach him about helping Merlin and yet, the moment Gwaine comes sweeping through the front door and into Merlin’s bedroom, its Gwaine Merlin looks to.

Gwaine stays that first night and Arthur says nothing, he gives them their privacy because dammit, as much as he’s taken to immediately disliking the man, he can’t quite shake that first glimpse of a smile he’d seen as Gwaine had opened the door to Merlin’s bedroom. They wake up late and it’s nearly lunch time the next day before their door opens again and Gwaine haphazardly tries to help Merlin limp into the hallway. The sight of their mismatched stumbling irritates him and Arthur gets up to bat Gwaine away and help Merlin himself. Almost from the moment Arthur touches him Merlin starts whinging, when a moment ago, in Gwaine’s imbecilic touch, he’d been quiet. With Merlin’s warm weight against his chest, his cool fingers wrapped tight around his own in a death grip, Merlin’s lips tight and his brows furrowed in concentration as they cross the room together. As Merlin frowns the entire time that Arthur’s helping, everything is almost fine, it’s the moment that he lets go, Merlin settling on the couch and the Idiot turns his frown on Gwaine and immediately starts to smile that his irritation with Gwaine really cements itself. And it’s an irritant that only grows.

And it grows with the smallest things.

Of the dozen or so minor (major) changes in Merlin since the accident, one of the more noticeable has definitely been a decrease in his aimless chatter. Merlin hasn’t been particularly talkative since he’s woken up; it’s something that Arthur’s become used to. After a week of nothing, with Merlin in a coma, the sound of his voice had been heaven in itself. Every time he croaked his thoughts had made Arthur smile, but the drugs made him tired and irritable and it had been few and far between. Nothing has really changed there since they’ve left the hospital. Merlin spends the first few days dozing off and on. With Gwaine’s arrival he takes to sleeping wrapped around Gwaine like a limpet and little else. His quiet chatter comes and goes like the gentle storms outside, but it’s always Gwaine that draws Merlin into talking. Every time Arthur attempts to talk, intrude on their little shared existence for a moment, Merlin shuts up and before they know it, he’s asleep and Gwaine is petting him absently.

It’s a silly feeling, but to Arthur it’s like he’s become secondary in his own home, and given the state of his own personal life, it’s not particularly becoming. A part of him had almost been looking forward to the solace of looking after Merlin. It had made him squirm, thinking about it to begin with. How he was looking forward to taking care of his best friend after a major accident. In truth, he’d dissected it until he’d been happy with the fact all he really wanted was to get close again. Reaffirm their friendship that hadn’t quite been what it was since he’d got married. Just this itch that it was off in some way neither of them could quite fathom. At least, he hoped Merlin didn’t know what was wrong and just hadn’t informed him.

Either way, being shunted does little for Arthur’s mood and in truth, gives him the time to become familiar with the odd sense of displacement that he guessed he was missing when he first found Gwen and Lance together. Whether as a consequence or a symptom of his ever increasing melancholy, Morgana takes to barging into the house whenever she feels like it. Something about being knocked up gives her confidence an (unnecessary) boost, or, perhaps, her need to be involved in everyone’s crisis at once, because, all of a sudden, she seems determined to be either in the middle of Merlin’s attention or Arthur’s.

Arthur’s not sure what annoys him more: the fact that Merlin seems awake to talk to Morgana whenever she barges into their life, or when she turns her attentions on him, asking him about whether or not he’s talked to Gwen yet. Or how he’s feeling. Pestering, annoying things that irritate him and make her scowl and set Leon on him, which is odd, having Leon of all people ask him how he is. It’s like being set upon on all sides by happy couples and it only serves to drive him into thinking about Gwen, Gwen and the way she used to smile, how she used to touch him and just _know everything_ and Christ. He hates it.

In the days after Gwaine comes back for Merlin, Arthur has never felt quite so alone as he does then. It makes him introspective and quiet and in a fit of determination and an impermeable need to do something, he does.

It’s sunny, the day he files for divorce.

In a rare show of solitude, Merlin is awake and alone when Arthur leaves his own bedroom, looking pale and sweaty and uncomfortable on the couch. Arthur almost scolds him for not waiting for help, but moving about on his own has been something Merlin’s been more determined to accomplish. Arthur had listened quietly and with glee as Merlin had told off his rehabilitation nurse the day before and then proceeded to scowl at everyone all afternoon in a display of utter frustration. Merlin’s improvements since his release have been slow and steady. Thankfully nothing has made Arthur panic much at all beyond that first night when Morgana’s soothing talk-down in the car had been momentarily forgotten in the wake of Merlin breaking down into exhausted tears after a trip to the bathroom that had taken them an hour.

Since then it’s only been uphill, though it doesn’t stop Arthur noticing how tired Merlin is from the effort it takes for him to cross the room to settle haphazardly on the couch. As he sets Merlin’s morning tea on the coffee table he pauses to swing Merlin’s legs all the way onto the couch, trying to ignore the wince and held breath of barely concealed pain as he does. He arranges the pillows behind Merlin, making sure they’re supporting his back and his arm and that the throw rug covers his legs, the remote within easy reach. Neither of them talk as he does so, not even when he goes over to the kitchen and takes out Merlin’s pills, shaking them out of their bottles and taking them over. Merlin scowls but swallows them with his tea and that’s that.

Despite their help in moving around, Merlin hasn’t said a word about how much it wears him out, even the thirty steps or so between his room and the couch and today is no different. Arthur’s glad, because despite the clear show of dissent in the ranks, today isn’t a day Arthur wants to talk about. Not even to Merlin. He’s still not changed his mind in the slightest by the time Morgana arrives at ten o’clock. He hasn’t told her why he needs the day to himself, and she doesn’t ask, nor does she comment on why Gwaine is absent. She seems to immediately understand they’re both being secretive and in a rare display leaves them to wallow. Instead, she walks in with that same unyielding arrogance as always, and immediately starts berating Arthur’s attempts to care for Merlin because that’s common ground.

“You’re letting him watch _Eastenders_ , Arthur? What is _wrong_ with you?”

“He put it on,” Arthur scowls as he searches for his left shoe amongst the jumble his coat closet has become.

“Yes, well, it’s normal television, Arthur. You could at least have turned on the Wii so he could use BBC iPlayer. Or there’s the stuff on Percy’s hard-drive. Merlin, darling, you’re allowed to boss him around,” she prattles and Arthur stops looking for his shoes for a moment to watch the quiet contentment start to steal its way into Merlin’s posture. He has to hide a smile.

“Ah! He has something worth watching! Mitchell and Webb, darling?” Morgana asks and Arthur snorts as he hears Merlin’s soft tones. It’s Merlin’s DVD anyway.  
Arthur sighs.

“I’ll be back later. Text me if you need anything. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

Both of them shout something at the back of his head as he leaves, but he doesn’t say anything.

He has to fish his sunglasses out of his pocket as he makes his way towards Tintagel Law and it’s only when he gets there that he’s struck by the horrible fact that Lance is his lawyer.

Or he used to be. Well, he had six others – but Lance had been his primary, personal lawyer ever since Lance had joined Tintagel. It’s not something Arthur’s thought about in the last few weeks, his anger had been aimed directly at personal Lance, not professional Lance. He hadn’t thought of it until now, and now what he’s going to do won’t be appropriate in the slightest. On Lance or Gwen. Or even himself.

Thankfully Elena makes room for him when she sees him in the lobby having a minor crisis, and then he has a major crisis when he remembers once again, with an earth shattering clarity, that it’s not only his own relationship that fell apart in the wake of Lance and Gwen’s betrayal, but also that Lance broke Elena’s heart as well. But there’s a sort of calm detachment he feels when he realises that at the very least, Lance will be able to help Gwen with the papers and not some heartless wench in search of a payout.

He could have married Elena, once upon a time, and they could have got along and saved themselves this heartache, long before they’d even reached University. Long before he’d met Sophia or Vivian or even Gwen. But even then they’d both been too stubborn and then they’d tried again _during_ uni and that hadn’t worked either because neither of them had changed. A part of him feels ill for his part in introducing her to Lance all those years ago now, and suddenly every memory he has of her smiling makes his stomach roil. He’s glad that he didn’t lose her to the melee his life’s become, but she feels wrong in his arms as she hugs him, she feels wrong the way Gwen never did. The way Merlin never has. She feels wrong in his arms and he aches that he couldn’t give her anything but heartbreak over and over again.

Despite the day’s intentions, having Elena help him fill out divorce papers against his wife who had slept with her boyfriend leaves him unsettled in a way that doesn’t leave him even by the time he gets back to the flat. It settles deep into him and he knows it’s not something he’s ever going to forget. No matter Elena’s quiet little “it’s okay,” when she’d caught him panicking.

Its mid afternoon by the time he gets back to the flat and Morgana is curled up in the armchair with a coffee cup and Merlin is slumped over on the couch around Gwaine once more, the pair of them sleeping. Merlin’s face peaceful and blank despite the mottled green and yellow of still fading bruises, he’s pressed into the curve of Gwaine’s neck and the man’s arm is wrapped possessively around Merlin. It could almost have been sweet if it doesn’t serve to set Arthur’s teeth on edge.

“Are you okay?” Morgana asks softly as he toes his shoes off and dumps his jacket in the cupboard, closing it without hanging it up or looking where it landed. That would be why it’s such a mess, he thinks.

“No,” he replies, the honesty sliding off his tongue as he walks towards the kitchen.

Morgana follows, her footsteps quiet on the tiles.

“How is he?” he asks as he fishes for two scotch glasses.

“Hurting. Pretending he’s not. He and Gwaine made up around lunch time and they fell asleep an hour ago. They went to the bathroom and then tried to eat something and it wore Merlin out. He’s trying too hard,” she sighs and Arthur turns to look at her for a moment. Their eyes meet and he sees how much this is hurting her too. It’s always been difficult for him, seeing his unflappable sister be worn down, distressed. Not least of all now. Morgana is the first to look away, her pride taking reign.

“Merlin managed to get some soup down at least and I gave him his meds. They knocked him out in ten minutes. It was almost like his eyes rolled back in his head. I would’ve been terrified if he hadn’t been wearing that doped up grin of his and if I hadn’t seen what ibuprofen does to him to recognise it. Jesus, Arthur, I don’t know how you’ve been doing this 24/7.”

That’s almost like a blue moon regarding Morgana, in the space of a conversation he’s seen real emotion in her eyes and an admittance that there’s something even she can’t handle. It’s almost unnerving. He’s not really seen this part of her since before Morgause found her and everything unravelled around Uther’s well-kept secrets when they were sixteen.

He clears his throat; an admittance from Morgana deserves one of his own.

 

“I need him here. I need to know he’s okay.”

“He’s not. Not yet,” she says softly and Arthur frowns.

“No.”

“He will be though. He’s stronger than any of us. Stronger than we’ll ever be. I mean, how many more people does he have to lose, Arthur? His mum, his dad. Freya and now Will. I’d be a wreck. An absolute wreck.” She’s leaning up against the bar, watching him carefully. He feels almost like a bug under a glass, but he’s too tired to entertain the paranoia for long. He’s too worried and too off-guard to stop Morgana’s concerns bringing out the thoughts that have been prowling his own brain for nearly three weeks with no one to tell them to, now that Gwen is gone.

“I don’t think he’s not,” he says, glancing back towards the couch. “He’s just learned to cope. I’m still waiting for him to realise Will’s gone.”  
“You don’t think it’s sunk in yet?”

“No,” he says, grimly as he turns back around and reaches for the good scotch.

Morgana raises an eyebrow and he sighs.

“It hasn’t sunk in for me yet either, about this, about Gwen and she’s not even gone. She’s just fucking Lancelot, three suburbs away.”  
“Arthur,” Morgana says, her tone dark. He can’t help it, he scoffs.

“I filed for divorce papers today,” he says, almost offhand, handing his sister one of the crystal glasses with a measure of their father’s old vice.  
Her eyes widen and then soften.

“Oh Arthur.”

“Father never really approved of her anyway.”

“You loved Gwen, what she did was inexcusable, Arthur, but we were all stressed. It wasn’t anyone’s best time.”

“Which is why I’m giving her half my worth. She can’t touch anything from Father’s estate; that was made clear in the trust, but my own income is hers, if she wants it. As long as she’s happy, I can’t begrudge her that.”

“Oh Arthur,” is all Morgana can say.

He can’t help but think it’s about right.

 

*

 

They try to all move on after that. Well, Arthur does.

Life seems to reaffirm itself, even though Gwen doesn’t sign the papers. He’s aware that it won’t change overnight, just as Merlin’s effervescence hasn’t returned either. A small part of him mourns the loss like the happy man he knew will never return. The reality of it is harsher still, perhaps. Merlin stays in his room at Arthur’s, but Gwaine stays with him and it’s really only in Gwaine’s presence that Arthur sees the Merlin he knew. It’s Gwaine who coaxes out these hesitant smiles that burst out of him like he simply can’t keep them at bay and then suddenly they’re gone again.

But Merlin grows stronger and Arthur finds clarity in keeping busy. He can’t quite talk himself into leaving them alone together and so doesn’t go into work, but Helen emails him promptly every day, which is more than enough to keep him busy and keep him up to date and the company running smoothly.

While Gwaine’s presence in the flat minimises Arthur’s hovering, Merlin still isn’t strong enough to take care of himself completely. A fortnight after his release from the hospital walking across the flat still wears him out, but the nurses seem happy enough with his progress, even if Merlin isn’t. Merlin’s mood doesn’t lift a great deal even with Gwaine around constantly, but the pressure of it all isn’t quite as strangling when Leon and Morgana and Percy come over for dinner one night. Merlin spends half the night on Percy’s back, arms wrapped around his neck ordering the big man around the flat, petting his hair like a prize pony. The joy that’s been long lost in Merlin’s expression returns that night, but it’s never quite enough for Arthur to forget the days before. There’s nothing, he thinks, that’s ever going to make him forget what’s happened.

Merlin’s laughter makes a relieving appearance that night, and is like this pealing bell that rings again and again in Arthur’s ears and he catches himself staring more than he should. Ever since his release, Arthur can’t help the feeling like there’s an itch he can’t scratch if Merlin isn’t within his line of sight, something, he notes, he shares with Gwaine. The man shares in Merlin’s laughter and begs off Percy to give him a go on his back, pouting when Percy grins and dumps Merlin in his lap instead.

Arthur can’t help but feel a panging sense of something he can only accrue to jealousy as he watches the display, how Merlin laughs and smiles and winces briefly, hiding the pain as he snuggles down into Gwaine’s embrace and just stays as he is, resting across Gwaine’s lap with his head on the man’s shoulder and idly playing with his hair.

“He’s good for him, Arthur,” Morgana says and Arthur nearly jumps out of his skin. He feels a blush climbing up his neck at being caught out and he pouts, glaring at his sister then.  
“What?” he asks, somewhat rudely. He knows Morgana knows he heard her, but she doesn’t call him on it. She just repeats it, and a part of him can’t help but wonder whether she almost enjoys pointing it out, like she knows how much that single fact makes something pull deep inside him.

“Gwaine,” she says, softly. No one else is paying any attention to them, for which Arthur is thankful, but he appreciates his sister’s discretion.  
“He’s good for Merlin. He makes him happy.”

“He does,” he admits, somewhat grudgingly.

“So let him be happy, don’t ruin it.”

He turns to look at her, the words on the tip of his tongue – the demand to know exactly what on earth she meant by that but he never says it. The words stick and Morgana’s sharp gaze cuts him off anyway, before she nods and disappears back around the kitchen table to walk over to the couch and run her fingers through Merlin’s hair, garnering his attention.  
Arthur watches them for a moment and tries to stifle the sudden and pounding sense of _want_ echoing through him that nearly knocks him for six.

 

*

 

He’s known it was inevitable, but that doesn’t lessen the fierce desire a few days later, to slam the door in Gwen’s face and simply not talk to her for as long as he possibly can the day she turns up on their doorstep.

Still, it’s nice of her to knock, much in the same way it’s so damn definite. So much more so than the obsequious papers he signed and had one of his four other lawyers deliver for him. This somewhat small factor means so much more, this is no longer her home; she’s knocking at the door instead of just walking straight in and letting Arthur hold her. That part of their lives is gone, the same way Freya is gone and Will is gone and how the bursting affection he used to feel is simply _not there_. He looks at her standing in the doorway of what used to be their home and there’s simply nothing there for her anymore. He’s hollow. But, in a way, he can almost feel an echo of that aching love he used to feel, like it’s still there somewhere. But deep down, where it counts, he _knows_ that he can’t love her anymore. He can’t give her that trust anymore. He can’t let her have his heart when she crushes it right at the time he needed her most, even if he was callous about it. Even if what she said was the truth, how he’d simply absorbed himself into Merlin, into taking care of Merlin, obsessing over his friend and the last damn words they said to each other. He retreated and left her alone, but they were married, they were in _love_ , she should have come to him, instead of Lance. She should have tried to draw him back to her, slap him in the face and make him see what he was doing. But she didn’t, instead she gave herself to Lance and broke everything Arthur had trusted her with.

It’s not so much the act that kills him, after all, he knows how the moment can simply take over; what kills is that it had clearly gone well beyond a kiss. She had made the decision to go through with whatever path they had chosen and it had not featured him at all. It had been Lance; she had chosen her comfort in Lance. That betrayal is the one he can’t forgive.

“Please don’t shut the door, Arthur. We need to talk,” she says, her eyes wide and pleading with him. It’s an expression he can’t stand, even now. What’s worse is that a part of him, a rational part that sounds awfully like Morgana, tells him she’s right; they need to talk. They need to finish this properly. Figure out what lies in the dust of their relationship.  
He doesn’t say yes, he can’t find his voice; he simply opens the door a little wider and lets her through. The flat is quiet, evidence of Merlin strewn everywhere, but the man himself is tucked away in the bedroom, wrapped around Gwaine, no doubt, much as he had on the couch before Gwaine had prodded him awake and dragged him back into the dark of his bedroom where he could sprawl all he liked, as the other man had said.

He leads her through to the kitchen and sets about pulling down two mugs and flicking the switch on the kettle. He needs to keep his hands busy. He can feel her watching him.  
“You haven’t answered any of my texts,” she says and he stops, his muscles tensing.

“I’ve had things on.”

“I know, Arthur, but still – “

“I’ve had things on,” he says, gruffer still. She makes a small sound in her throat and falls quiet.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” she says then and something snaps inside him. He closes his eyes and wills himself to lower his voice.  
“Don’t say that to me, Gwen, please. Just don’t say that. I don’t care.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t, alright? I _can’t_ , because the woman I loved was all ready to sleep with one of my friends, while my _best_ friend was in the hospital. Merlin almost _died_ , Gwen, or were you not there with me that first night? Did you not hear what those fucking doctors said? I’m sorry I retreated into myself, really, I am. But _Christ_ , was I so disposable that you couldn’t have helped me instead of pulling out Lance’s dick?”

 

The outrage in her expression is fleeting, flashing bright for a moment before morphing into something he knows well these few weeks: anguish.  
“I tried, Arthur!” she cries, sounding flustered, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed. “I tried! But you seemed to forget that I love Merlin too! That I’m his friend as well! I was scared, too, you know! I had to stand there and listen to those doctors say to hold our breath for the next 24 hours. I was _there_ , but you just disappeared, you’d look at me and I could see your brain was back at that hospital and I could never beat him.”

“It shouldn’t be about _beating_ him, Gwen, he nearly _died_.”

“It’s _always_ about Merlin, Arthur!” she shrieks, the words bursting out of her like she simply can’t hold them back, and the way she deflates, like she’s resigned herself to the fact she’s let it out. Let the truth free… Arthur takes a step backwards. Gwen’s voice softens and somehow it’s worse. More heartbreaking than before.

“It’s always been about Merlin, Arthur. Always. And sometimes I don’t know whether you were looking at me or Merlin when you said our wedding vows.”

He stops then because Christ, that is too much. How… how _dare_ … He says nothing for the longest time and then when he opens his mouth it’s like the anger rears up and bursts out.

“I have _always_ loved you,” he snarls, fighting the desire to break something. Something precious. “Always, how _dare_ you – “  
“And that’s the worst thing, Arthur; you don’t even know you’re doing it.”

She sounds so sad then, so finite, like this is all the proof she needs and he’s still as lost as he ever was.

“ _What_?”

“You’ve always been in love with him, Arthur, you’ve just never let your heart reach your groin, is all. I thought if I waited long enough then maybe you’d look at me the same way you look at him, like forever is so damn possible, but you never did. You loved me, I know you did, but I could always feel the timer, even if you couldn’t. A part of me always knew this would never last forever. I always knew that I would never be enough. I just fooled myself I could be.”

“Is that how you saw me? Just waiting for the moment to throw you away?” he asks, surprised how much that revelation can still hurt when he’d tried to assure himself that nothing else she could say would. Gwen had once said that loving someone was giving them everything you had, every part of you – it was giving them the ability to destroy you and having faith that they wouldn’t. He understands that now, because Christ, this still hurts.

“Yes.”

And it can get worse.

She still looks sad, sorry for what she’s doing. But she doesn’t stop.

“It wasn’t always like that, Arthur. I loved you, I did. But underneath that, the little voice in the back of my head always knew that no matter how much you loved me, you loved Merlin more. He meant more to making you who you are than I could ever hope for. And the worst part was realising that you never knew. It hurt, Arthur, and I’m sorry for what I did to you, really I am. I truly didn’t mean to do what I did, but that day my emotions weren’t settled and Lance had been so kind to me, all these years. I loved him once, and that day all I needed was someone to love me and he was there and you weren’t. I’m sorry I hurt you, I really am. But I hope one day this might be the blessing you need to figure it out.”  
“I wanted to give you the world, you know,” he croaks. She looks crestfallen then.

“I know, Arthur. I do.”

She looks down at her hands then and for a moment neither one of them speak. Arthur just watches her, how she’s dressed in her comfort clothes, swathes of soft, well-worn cotton draped like armour. Her hair pulled back, too long strands falling in her eyes.

She clears her throat and reaches out for the table. Arthur follows her movement and in the quiet between them the sound of the two rings clinking as they hit the marble bench top echoes around the room.

Arthur watches them settle, the gold wedding band and the elegant engagement ring he spent weeks designing, just for her.

“I signed the papers this morning. Lance is taking them back to Tintagel along with the last of his paperwork.”

Arthur nods dumbly and once more nothing happens. Gwen doesn’t speak and she doesn’t move, they just stand there in the middle of the room staring at anything but each other.  
Then, before he can think on it again or stop himself, Arthur walks forward and wraps his arms around her.

“I’m sorry I did this to you,” he whispers, because as much as this hurts him, he knows it’s hurt her too. And despite himself, he still loves her. Somewhere inside him, somewhere he can’t acknowledge, he does.

Gwen folds into him and for a moment he could almost pretend nothing’s happened.

But it has.

So very much has.

He lets her go and takes a numb step back, looking back to the rings.

He reaches out for the engagement ring.

Her ring.

It will always be her ring.

“I designed this for you. I want you to have it,” he croaks and folds it into her palm.

She nods, her eyes gleaming and in a beat he knows they’re going to spill over and wash down her cheeks and he can’t see that.

She must know it too, because she nods and bites her lip. The first of them toppling off her lashes.

She rocks up onto her toes and kisses him on his cheek.

“Thank you,” she whispers, and then brushes past him.

She closes the door softly on her way out.

Arthur keeps his back to the door.

 

*

 

For the duration of Gwen’s visit, he’d completely forgotten that there was anyone else in his flat.

Which serves to make him awkward to all hell when Gwaine helps Merlin hobble out towards the lounge an hour later. He’s sitting at the table, staring down at his and Gwen’s wedding rings in front of him when Merlin’s door opens and there’s quiet muttering he can’t make out before Gwaine walks out the door and turns back towards it, facing Merlin as he braces himself and walks towards the couch, Gwaine walking beside him doing a fair impression of not looking like he’s hovering.

He’s mastered it better than Arthur had when it had been him helping Merlin walk about, back when Merlin needed an arm around his waist to brace him for fear he’d fall flat on his face otherwise. They’ve come a fair way since then, but Merlin’s not 100% yet. It’ll take months before he is, months and months. Enough time hasn’t passed that there’s still a cast on his arm, decorated in an assortment of more and more obscene drawings in sharpie. There’s another week or so at least before that comes off and really that’s the first real milestone that things will change for the better.

Merlin bats away Gwaine’s bracing arm halfway across the room and they both stop for a moment. Arthur pretends not to notice, but in reality he’s hyper aware of the two people a few metres away from him. He tries not to notice the way Merlin’s hair is sticking up, or the rough overgrowth of Gwaine’s usual scruffy half-shave. He tries not to notice the way their hands linger or the way Merlin’s back is stiff and he idly turns not once, not twice but three times to quickly glance at Arthur.

He tries, but ultimately he fails, sitting at his kitchen table turning his wedding ring around and around between his fingers.

Merlin says something and Gwaine finally gives in, backing away a few steps and then looking back at Merlin one last time before disappearing into the cupboard and leaving a few moments later with his coat and shoes.

Then it’s just them. Just himself and Merlin. Merlin limps in a circle, turning around stiffly to look at Arthur. His gaze burns a little, heavy and not without pity. Arthur has no idea what he’s thinking in those few moments; Merlin’s watching him, but he’s entirely closed off. Then, he takes a slow step forward and takes his time limping across the room. He still holds himself as he sits down, his ribs still sore.

Still, Arthur can’t find anything to say and Merlin doesn’t start. Not yet. He just sits there, across from Arthur and he watches him. His blue eyes softly taking everything in. It feels like someone running a hand down his spine and Arthur shivers.

Ultimately the quiet gets too much. Merlin doesn’t say anything and as the silence stretches too long Arthur shifts in his seat.

“I imagine you heard all that then,” he says sharply. Sharper than he intended. Merlin doesn’t seem phased in the slightest. That, if anything, makes it worse.  
“Whatever you’ve come out here to say, Merlin, I’d appreciate it if you just said it and disappeared again.”

“I’m sorry she hurt you,” he says, finally, after another long beat of quiet.

“While I usually have time to appreciate your inane observations, Merlin, right now I really could not give a toss.”  
“You’re allowed to be upset you know.”

“Oh, am I? Thank you for that, _Mer_ lin. I wasn’t aware.”

“You don’t have to hide it, you know. It’s okay.”

“I think, Merlin, that you should mind your own fucking business, alright? Don’t listen to things that aren’t your concern and if I want your opinion on anything other than what colour to paint the living room, I’ll ask you. Otherwise, would you kindly shut up.”

He stands up, then, pushing his chair back with enough force that it almost topples over. He couldn’t care less. Everything just seems to bubble under the surface, waiting to burst out. He feels reckless and angry, angrier than he’s been in a long time. There’s too much energy and he knows he has to do something – he has to get out before he does something stupid, something extremely stupid that can’t be fixed.

Merlin doesn’t say a thing. He just looks at Arthur like he knows. Like he understands.

Arthur lets out a puff of air that sounds like a scoff and stalks across the room, angrier then than he was just ten seconds prior.

It’s only when he’s about to slam the door closed behind him, his gym bag clutched over his shoulder and a determination to punch something until either the bag or his hand breaks, does Merlin say anything.

The words echo behind him as he slams the door.

“I didn’t listen,” Merlin says.

Arthur tries not to. It doesn’t work.

He goes back to work the next day. He leaves early, waking up and showering before even the sun has peaked over the Camelot smog. The apartment is eerily quiet as he gets dressed. The air smells crisp and sharp as he walks to the car and he’s almost tempted to walk in, instead of driving. But his poor car’s been neglected as much as his company has these past months. He’s worked from home including a few board meetings he took in conference calls instead of actual physical meetings. It almost feels strange as he slumps in his ergonomic desk chair and stares out at the Camelot skyline as he drinks his coffee and waits for the building to fill.

His desk is pristine, in its place it’s his computer that’s atrocious. He’s kept up on his emails easily enough, but the reports and files that Helen usually duplicates for him to review and keep digital copies of have amassed like a plague. He spends the hour or so before Helen and George arrive trying to sort through as many as possible. There’s still plenty to sort through once there’s a knock at his office door and he turns to face Helen’s enquiring eyebrow.

“I didn’t think you’d be back for at least another week. Morgana tells me that Merlin’s still on the mend.”

“He doesn’t need me anymore. Gwaine can take care of everything. I’ve been away too long here. I’ve let my priorities slip,” he says, sounding dull and emotionless even to his own ears. Helen scowls.

“Your priorities should be to your friends, Arthur. This company has been standing for nearly thirty years, its CEO taking personal time isn’t going to make a world of difference.”  
“I’ve taken my personal time. It’s done, Helen. I have work to do. If you please, I’d like to review the month’s figures. We’ll start with Cameliard Media.”

Helen doesn’t look happy, in fact, she looks grim, but she’s known him for years and her insider knowledge must mean something because she just nods at him and disappears. Five minutes later his computer pings with an internal email and he nods to himself. Work has always been an absurd comfort to him. No matter what else goes on in the world, PenInc and everything to do with it has always been a safe haven. Numbers and business are easy to follow, to understand. It doesn’t matter how long he’s away, it’s easy to just slip in and feel in control of what he’s doing.

Helen takes to ignoring him during the day. Face to face, at least. She passes on all the vital emails she’s sent and George deals with the rest. He has month’s worth of requests for lunch from the owners of different companies all over Camelot; none of them are for pleasure, as with anything in high stakes business – it’s all a game in one way or another. Everyone has something to lose or something to gain and it all depended on what you needed and were willing to give combined with your ability to pay attention that made all the difference. His father had been excellent at playing his cards in the right order. It was why PenInc was such a powerhouse today. It was why each sector was fully functional all on its own. It was the most irritating part of his job, shaking hands and buying loyalty. He hated it.

Which was why Mithian Nemeth had quickly become one of his favourite people in business. Whether it was her connection to Merlin and Merlin’s inability to find anyone he couldn’t get along with or whether it was just Mithian herself, she was almost a joy. Especially when he was trying to avoid a luncheon with Lachlan Lot and Everard Odin.

With her contract and his support in her printing house, Nemeth Publishing had made quite a little boost in the last few months. Taking on half a dozen more new authors and for the first time in a while, their projected profit for the next quarter looked like something worth looking forward to. Which is why Arthur couldn’t resist when she called him down to the Stirling Bar.

It’s the first time in months that he’s been out, really, and the gentle rumble of people’s voices, the mindless chatter of a television playing somewhere towards the back, the scrape of chairs and the smell of beer; it all rattles around him and is strangely soothing. He’s early, so it’s nice to just bask in it for a while before Mithian arrives.

“You seem happy,” she says by way of greeting, nearly half an hour since he sat down and Arthur startles for a moment, caught momentarily off guard. The moment his brain catches up he smiles.

“I am,” he replies, turning to face her. “It’s good to see you.”

It is good, he finds. She looks good. Not precisely put together like she normally is when he’s seen her, the way Elena is when she’s at Tintagel. There’s a softness about her, with her hair down and her shoulders relaxed.

“It’s been a while,” she nods, eyeing him carefully for a moment. “But then again we have had quite an excuse getting in the way of our business ventures.”  
“Yeah,” he chuckles wryly, tapping the bar idly for a moment. “Some excuse indeed.”

“So, how are you?” she asks, sliding onto the chair next to him at the bar.

“Ok, I guess. Need a breather. How about you?”

“Busy. But that’s the way I like it. Keeps things focussed. Easy to forget you don’t have a life that way,” she smiles, enjoying mocking herself.

“How’s Merlin?” she asks and Arthur fights to push down a mess of emotions he’s been avoiding for the last few days. He’s barely seen or spoken to Merlin since he shouted at him and the guilt is starting to manifest again.

“He’s good.” He says, twisting his drink around on the bar. “Should be getting his cast off today.”

_And I should be there with him._

“Has it really been that long?”

“Yeah. Six weeks. Doesn’t feel like it.” And it really doesn’t. It feels like so much longer than that.

“Still, it’s good that he’s getting past it. He looked better, the last I saw him. Better than he was,” Mithian smiles softly and Arthur shrugs.

“He is. He can get about a lot easier now.”

“That’s good. That’s not why we’re here tonight though,” she says and this time Arthur looks at her. There’s this glint of mischief in her eyes that reminds him of Merlin for a moment before he pushes it back and just enjoys it.

“Oh? And why is that.”  
“We’re here to get sloshed. Celebrate everything that needs to be celebrated. Ignore everything else and just be. Does that sound wanky to you?”

“Definitely.”

“Then neither of us are nearly drunk enough. We should just buy a bottle. What do you drink, Pendragon?”

“Anything but gin.”

“You’re missing out. When was the last time you had tequila?” she asks, standing up against the bar and leaning forward. Arthur can’t help but smile, drawn in by her joyful enthusiasm.

“Probably not long enough ago,” he replies and she cackles.

“Tequila it is then. I figure, neither of us are thirty. We’re both stupid, single and work too much. Time to make some bad choices in life, I say.”

And he can’t help but agree.

And bad choices they are when he wakes up the next morning in the penthouse suite of a hotel across town after drinking most of a bottle of very expensive tequila, writing them both off as a business expense and crowning the adventure by sleeping with Mithian.

It is definitely a low point.

But the lowest peak comes as he rolls over at six am, hungover to all hell and suddenly, consciously aware of the fact that as he looks at the beautiful woman lying asleep next to him, gorgeous and wonderful and still partly naked, he is struck with the overwhelming knowledge that he would much rather be at home with Merlin.

 

*

 

Afterwards, he feels bad about how he goes about dealing with his drunken one night stand. Thankfully, Mithian is a diamond and doesn’t seem particularly keen on dissecting their… whatever it is that they did, the next time he sees her. She’s smart, beautiful, everything that he’d be lucky to have – the only thing is, he knows he’s far too conflicted about nearly every part of his life to deal with it.

And he misses Merlin.

He just really, really misses him. It doesn’t matter that they live under the same roof. It doesn’t matter in the slightest because it still feels like there’s this gaping cavern between them and he has absolutely no idea how it got quite so big and he has even less idea about what to do about it.

He calls in and apologises to Helen that he’ll be running late after he leaves Mithian. He debates the pros and cons of going home versus going to find somewhere to buy a new suit and eventually the sheer effort of dealing with making the decision is enough to drive him back to his apartment.

As it’s been every single time he’s come back in the last week, the flat is quiet when he gets there. Merlin’s taken to trying to rein in the amount of his stuff that’s lying around the place. In the end it just makes Arthur’s own things seem minimal. Without Gwen’s belongings his home is too big for everything he owns. There’s too much space on the shelf, there aren’t enough books in the bookcase.

Even his DVD shelf looks sad, he thinks, as he slumps down on his couch and stares aimlessly around the place. He can hear a clock ticking somewhere and the soft rumble of cars downstairs. His mobile vibrates on silent on the kitchen side where he left it.

It’s sort of overwhelming, the state his life has become, he thinks. He actually has no idea about what he’s going to do with himself. How do you acclimatise to the fact that your wife left you because she thinks you’re in love with your best friend? Said best friend who barely looks at you for reasons you can’t understand, especially when all you want to do is stare at them to make sure they weren’t going to disappear the moment you looked away.

It all feels rather childish, really, in a way that hasn’t entirely anything to do with innocence or childishness or – really, even his own analogy falls flat. Arthur sighs and slumps further into the couch. At least his couch is comfortable. That at least is a plus.

The sound of the front door opening startles him from his reverie a moment later and he almost hits himself in the face as he sits bolt upright. Merlin smiles a little as he watches him and then turns to take off his jacket and shoes. Gwaine isn’t with him.

“Hey,” Arthur says, hoping that it’s enough. He knows if Merlin had shouted at him and then sulked for a week he’d be a little annoyed. Still, Merlin is a much better person than he is, and he just offers him another smile as he shuts the cupboard door.

“Hey,” he replies.

Neither of them says anything as Merlin limps across the room and slowly settles himself down in the chair opposite Arthur.

“How was work?” Merlin asks and Arthur can’t help but snort.

“I haven’t been in today. Yesterday was fair enough, I suppose. Odin and Lot seem to want something. I couldn’t care less.”

“That’s good,” Merlin says, his fingers running a tapping beat on either arm rest of the chair.

“How’s your arm?” Arthur asks in turn and Merlin’s smile picks up a little. He waves his left arm a little, wrapped in a long sleeve shirt despite the fact it’s actually a little warm out.  
“Good. Doc’s said it healed really well, which is saying something. I won’t show you it though; it’s all grey and hairy. Disgusting.”

That makes him laugh which is enough to drag a chuckle out of Arthur. For a moment it feels normal again.

“How is that different to how it normally looks? You’re always pale. Under fluoro lights you look practically green.”

“Thanks for that,” Merlin mocks and his smile widens.

“Thanks for everything, you know?” he says a moment later and his smile slips.

“I’m sorry for being a burden and what happened with Gwen, you know. But I’m glad for everything you’ve done for me. I needed you. So thanks.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Merlin,” he says, hoping the idiot knows that he’d do it again if he needed to. Even though he prays that he never will. Merlin looks vulnerable in that moment. He’s still pale, shadows lurking under his eyes and his smile isn’t quite as bright. He’s not as bouncy, as irritatingly chipper as he was. He’s wounded, and not entirely in the physical form of it. Arthur wants nothing more in that moment than to take care of him. To do whatever is necessary to bring it all back. That _joie de vivre_ that has always just been… _Merlin_.

“I want to,” Merlin finally says, looking fond. “You’ve been there even when I didn’t think that I needed you. You haven’t asked for anything for it. You’ve let me stay here far longer than you should have. Hell, you’ve let Gwaine stay even though you… you’ve let him stay. And I just wanted to say thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Merlin.”

“I know. But, I think, really, it’s time for me to go home. I’m well enough that I can and I don’t want to be a burden to you any more than I have been.”  
Arthur feels a moment of sheer panic and for a second he just thinks _no_.

“Are you sure you’re strong enough? I mean, can you climb those idiot stairs you have?” he stutters.

Merlin laughs and it does nothing against the panic welling up in Arthur’s chest.

“Yeah. The girls have been training me up. Gwaine too. I’ve been back a few times and I can do it well enough. It’ll be good for me.”

“I don’t want to you to do anything you’re not ready for. Especially if it’s just for me. I like having you here. I do.”

“It’s not that, Arthur. I just… I can’t let this hold me back, you know? Not anymore than it has. There’s still a long way to go and I can’t live in limbo waiting for that moment everything is fine so I can slip back into my old life like nothing’s happened. I can’t pretend that. I don’t have the luxury. Will’s dea-“ and that’s where he falters. Arthur almost wants to get up and move closer, because this is the first time since the funeral that he’s heard Merlin mention Will. His expression crumbles and his eyes are bright. He closes them tight for a moment and bites his lip, fighting to keep himself in control.

“Will,” he says after a moment. “Will is gone, Arthur. Gwen is – you and Gwen are over.” He opens his eyes.

“Things need to start moving again. They need to happen otherwise I’ll never move on. And I think you need to do the same.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything. He can’t. He has no idea what to say to that. _Don’t go,_ is the only thing he wants to say and he can’t. Because Merlin won’t stay. Why should he?

“I guess you’re all packed then,” he says instead and Merlin bites his lip again and nods.

“Yeah.”

“Right.”

And it’s like when he moved out the first time. He tells Arthur and is gone before Arthur has any chance of constructing an argument as to why he bloody well shouldn’t leave.  
And once again Arthur is left with an apartment that feels empty and lifeless, except this time there’s no Gwen to fill in the gaps.  
There’s just Arthur.

So he buys a pot plant.

 

*

 

Arthur has thirteen days to himself between Merlin moving the last of his stuff back to his own apartment and when their usual Friday rolls around. It’s the first time they’ve attempted a return to the Rising Sun since Merlin’s accident, none of them quite up to making the effort or quite ready to pretend everything is normal.

It feels strange crossing the car park to the front entrance. Everything is as timeless as it’s always been, however. Rosa smiles at him when he finally pushes his way through the door. Their table is empty and waiting for them, a little reserved sign on the middle of it. Arthur picks it up as he sidles over to dump his coat, holding it up so Rosa can see. The old girl smiles warmly and winks at him. He’s fishing in his pockets for his wallet when she beats him to it and brings over a jug of beer and a couple of glasses.  
“Morgana called earlier, love. Told me you were coming back again. I must say you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“So is this place,” Arthur smiles, feeling some of the tension he’s been feeling for the last few… god knows how long, start to seep away.  
Rosa smiles and pats him on the back.

“How’s Merlin then?” she asks, pretending to wipe the table.

“He’s good. Cast came off the other week. Moved back home as well.”

“That’s good news. Gwen popped by a few times to keep us all up to date.”

“She did?” Arthur asks, shocked. It never really occurred to him that Rosa might have wanted to keep up to date with Merlin’s recovery. She knew about the accident, of course. Everyone did – it was splashed all over the paper for the week afterwards. The winds had brought down more than just trees onto unsuspecting cars. It had cost the city millions in damage, rooves collapsing, power lines coming down – trees landing on cars and going through walls. Overall there had been four deaths caused that night, Will’s included. Another fifty or so people had been through the hospital but Merlin had by far been the worst off. It had torn through Camelot and the city was still recovering.

“Aye. It’ll be good to see his smilin’ face again. Drinks are on the house tonight, love. Gotta treat my regulars right,” She says with a wink. Arthur just smiles warmly.

“You don’t have to do that, Rosa.”

“I know, love. Now don’t worry about it.” She pats him on the back again and then disappears back to the bar. It’s not long after that when Merlin and Gwaine show up. Merlin’s bouncing on his heels, looking eager and happy and something squirms inside Arthur’s chest as he watches him drag Gwaine across the bar to greet Rosa.

Morgana and Leon arrive a little while later and Morgana immediately goes over to join them. By then Arthur’s started his second pint out of the jug Rosa brought over earlier and Leon looks to the dregs in the bottom of it like they’re what’s left of the holy grail as he pours it out and swallows it down.

“I take it Morgana is being delightful today?” Arthur smirks, watching Leon grimace.

“Her clothes have stopped fitting,” Leon says and Arthur just has to laugh, because fuck, that wouldn’t be pleasant in the slightest.

“I’ll go get another one,” he says, amiably slapping Leon on the back as his friend reaches for what’s left in Arthur’s glass.

Merlin, Gwaine and Morgana are still all chatting to Rosa as he sidles over.

“You need another one?” the old woman asks as Arthur leans on the bar next to Merlin. Gwaine has his arm around Merlin’s waist and his other hand around a pint glass of lager. Merlin has his customary glass of lemonade in front of him, just as he used to have when they came here regularly. It soothes something in the back of Arthur’s head that he wasn’t aware of until that moment.

“Yeah,” he nods at Rosa and she moves to fill another jug.

“You got your boys taking care of you?” Rosa asks Morgana then, tipping the jug forward to stop the foam.

“They’re doing their best, I guess,” Morgana says in that condescending way she has. Merlin laughs and Gwaine snorts amiably. Arthur ignores her. He’s about to go back over to Leon when the door opens and Percy enters, Elyan following after him.

“Can I get another two glasses, Rosa?” Arthur asks then. He balances the lot over to the table just in time to meet the pair of them saying hello to Leon.

“Beers on Rosa tonight, boys,” he says, setting down the glasses in front of them. Leon budges his way out of the table and heads back to the bar to check on Morgana.  
Which leaves Arthur wide open, with Percy divesting himself of his coat and everyone else catching up on the other side of the bar.

It’s not something that Arthur would ever have suspected from Elyan. They’ve got on rather well over the years, all things considered. There’s something to the set of Elyan’s shoulders as he first approaches and Arthur’s about to make a joke about beer and Morgana and maybe tell the man it’s good to see him, because all things considered he hasn’t really been sure he was ever going to see him again, now that they’re no longer family.

“Did you have to get her fired?” Elyan growls, his voice low and threatening and for a moment Arthur doesn’t know what the man’s said, because it simply doesn’t make sense.  
“Excuse me? What?”

Elyan glowers

“Gwen. I get what she did sucked, yeah? But getting her fired, that’s low, Pendragon. That’s fucking childish.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I didn’t do anything to Gwen.”

“I don’t believe you,” Elyan counters, his anger palpable, but by now so is Arthur’s, because he hasn’t done anything to separate Gwen from the Avalon. He had no part in her leaving, or being fired, if what Elyan’s saying is true. He hasn’t had a part in it and he doesn’t appreciate the implication that he is. Hell, he didn’t even know she’d lost it until right now.

“Well that’s your problem, Elyan, because I didn’t even know she’d lost her job. I had nothing to do with that.”

“She’s my sister, Pendragon and she did a shitty thing, but she doesn’t deserve to get shifted like that.”

“What do I have to say to get it through your head, Elyan, that I have _no fucking idea_ what you’re talking about.”

“You can fucking own up to what you did.”

“I haven’t seen or heard or done anything to Gwen since she fucking signed the divorce papers. So I suggest you check your fucking facts before you do anything – “ he snaps, feeling the anger he’s been pushing away for the last weeks fuelling towards the surface. It’s not Elyan’s fault, not entirely. They haven’t been close friends, but they’ve always got on. He’s enjoyed the man’s company over the last year or so. It’s not so much Elyan that’s bringing a rise to Arthur’s anger, but everything he’s been fighting all on his own. Gwen, Lance, Elena, his company, Merlin – fucking Merlin. Gwaine, Morgana, Leon, his empty _fucking_ house. The emotions he has no idea what to do with. It all rises up with the help of the two pints he’s had already and the frustration that his entire life has come to nothing.

“You’re a fucking liar, Pendragon – “ Elyan barks and gives Arthur a shove.

“Arthur – “ someone says from behind him, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. He snarls and clenches his fists. It doesn’t really go through his head until he’s done it, slamming his fist into Elyan’s face and feeling the bruising pain in his hand.

Someone shouts behind them and Elyan staggers back, his eyes flashing and Arthur watches as he lunges forward, ready to return the hit and punch Arthur in the face. He doesn’t get a chance though, because all of a sudden Percy’s shouting and got his arms wrapped around Elyan and is pulling him back.

“Arthur!” someone growls and pulls at Arthur. They’re a lot smaller than Percy, but their grip is hard and pulls him back.

“Fucking let go!” he snaps and turns to look at Gwaine, who is looking grim and somehow also a little thrilled.

“Calm it down, Princess,” Gwaine says, his voice dripping in that condescending bravado that Arthur’s come to fucking hate.

“Don’t call me fucking _Princess,_ ” he snarls and shoves Gwaine back this time. His blood is pounding and he’s rearing for a fight now.

“Right, calm it down, alright? Fucking pack it in, okay?” Gwaine says, sounding a bit annoyed himself this time, and Arthur takes it as the victory it is. Gwaine’s got fucking Merlin but he can’t fucking tell Arthur what to do. He’s a goddamn _Pendragon_.

It shouldn’t feel as good as it does when his fist collides with Gwaine’s face, but somehow it does. He feels something settle inside of him when he watches the man stagger back a few steps again and bring his hand to his face. Arthur watches, feeling strangely calm as Gwaine brings his hand away, his fingertips red.

Gwaine’s eyes narrow and Arthur’s half aware of someone shouting somewhere behind him again right before Gwaine lunges for him and then there’s really nothing else to think about except pounding his fists into the other man, grappling with his limbs and trying to stop Gwaine from landing a blow. It’s harder than it looks in movies and how he imagined it in his head. It’s more earnest and with far less finesse. It’s desperate. Gwaine’s smaller, less broad – he’s like a thoroughbred than a warhorse, but he fights like one. The moment Arthur thinks he has the upper hand, using the strength in his thighs to swing himself over Gwaine and land a blow on the other side of the man’s face, feeling his knuckles crack under the blow, Gwaine’s twisted and swung and all of a sudden Arthur is fighting to get air back in his lungs. Something crunches underneath him and he swings out, his fist colliding with Gwaine’s torso and once again their positions have changed. Arthur leans down to punch him in his smug Merlin-stealing face when he feels hands on his back, reaching for his arm in a bid to stop him and with a snarl he lashes back. The grasp leaves his arm and he’s about to swing when there’s a crash and a small cry from behind him, a voice he recognises and that’s when the world slams back into place, the sound turned up. Arthur turns. He turns and he stares, feeling mute and so suddenly hollow when he see’s Morgana pushing Leon away to try and help Merlin gingerly to his feet. Merlin’s expression is tight and there’s blood on his hands where he went through the table. Where Arthur pushed him away and he fell through the table.

“Merlin!” Gwaine shouts and writhes, he writhes so hard Arthur just sort of slides off him and lets Gwaine scramble to his feet. He can’t look away from the sight in front of him. The sight he caused. He hurt Merlin.

Percy still has a hold on a now dumbfounded Elyan. Leon looks shocked and confused, reaching out to hold Morgana. Morgana looks furious with him, her expression is ice cold as she surrenders Merlin into Gwaine’s hold, Gwaine reaching for Merlin’s hands, completely ignoring the red swelling starting to come up on his face from where Arthur’s fists met his flesh. It’s all about Merlin.

Merlin who looks pale and distraught, whose blood is sliding down his arms and whose eyes are so wide and terrified as they slide past Gwaine and onto Arthur it’s like Merlin doesn’t know who he’s looking at anymore. It’s a sentiment that Arthur can understand.

He doesn’t hit people, but that doesn’t quite stop the feeling that had run through him so vibrantly that _oh Christ, he could, though. He was good at it – and it felt like maybe, just maybe he’d done it before._

“Are you alright?” he can hear Gwaine murmuring at Merlin and he can hear everyone else in the bar whispering and staring and he just wants to be sick, then. He stumbles around and shuffles to the bar. Rosa just stares at him, her expression as hollow as the one on Merlin’s face.

“I’m so sorry, Rosa,” he mutters, hoping she understands. He’s fucking well wrecked her bar and for what?

“I’ll pay any damages you can think of. I’m really sorry,” he says and hopes it’s enough. He’ll call George in the morning and get him to come around and let Rosa make a list of everything she wants done with the bar. But right at that moment he really needs to get away. He needs to fucking hide because this is all too much.  
No one follows him.

Not even Morgana.

 

*

 

Despite how long they’d been at the pub, he’s nowhere near as drunk as he should be. At least, as drunk as he should be to anywhere nearly justify what he’d done. Instead as he slumps behind the wheel of his car he’s aware of how _not drunk_ he is. Everything is in some sort of startling clarity that makes his blood sing. He punched someone. He punched Elyan. He punched Gwaine. He punched Gwaine and he can’t even remember _why_. Some bizarre injury to his pride that he can’t even fucking remember ten minutes later. His anger is completely gone, replaced with this echoing empty shame that just serves to make his hands shake.

What the fuck is he doing?

He turns the engine on and just careens out of the car park with no idea what so ever of where he’s going. He has no idea what the fuck he’s doing anymore. He just wants things to make sense. Hell, he just wants Merlin back. He wants Merlin. The streets of Camelot are busy in the rush of Friday Night Fun and he loses his car in the lanes of the freeway and the curls and bends of the suburbs. He has no idea of what he’s doing and even when he pulls up to the curb nearly two hours later he still can’t quite get rid of the shake in his fingers and the prickling shame running through him.

It just strengthens when he glances out the window and stares up at Merlin’s apartment. The lights aren’t on and there’s no car parked in the driveway, so they’re clearly not home yet.

The street is eerily silent and his phone hasn’t even buzzed once which just serves to make the prickling feeling on the back of his neck intensify. A part of him almost expects Morgana to call, knowing through her freaky sister ISP of the stupid thing he’s about to do, sitting here waiting for Merlin. The privacy and quiet is merciful though, and he indulges in it as much as he can, even though he probably shouldn’t have. All it does is ends up with him locking his car and make his way up the steps and into the building. He’s not entirely sure what he’s going to say either or how he’s going to say it, only that he can’t leave this. He can’t just keep going. Tonight has been enough. It’s too much.

It takes them ages before they get back, but once he’s there, sitting on the steps outside Merlin’s front door and his determination set, he has no intention of leaving before they do. He has to explain.

They’re talking softly between themselves as they head up the stairs and Arthur closes his eyes, listening to Merlin’s soft tones, just the cadence of his voice more than the indistinguishable words. He keeps his eyes shut and he waits until he hears their steps on around the corner and then he stands up, because he can’t see Gwaine towering over him when he says this.

Merlin’s quiet laughter at something Gwaine said shuts off immediately as they reach the landing and Arthur watches as Merlin’s eyes go round and his breath hitches. He stops and Gwaine runs into him, emitting a pained hiss before he looks past Merlin and his gaze narrows.

“What are you bloody well doing here?” he asks, stepping in front of Merlin. Merlin immediately reaches out to stop him getting any closer and Gwaine looks back. Something passes between them and he doesn’t move forward. Arthur feels himself yearn for that, that unspoken connection he used to have with the other man. He doesn’t quite know where he let it go, only that he misses it now more than anything.

“Merlin, - “ he croaks. Merlin flinches and he stops himself. In the quiet he takes the pair of them in. They’ve clearly been at A&E all night, Merlin’s hands are wrapped in bandages and Arthur feels anger curl up and take residence in his stomach. He did that. Just days after Merlin had his cast taken off and he’s back in bandages. Gwaine looks worse. The bruises have flared up much as they have on Arthur’s own face he imagines, all blues and purple and violent red. He’s got a busted lip and a butterfly bandage on his nose. It’s clearly broken. His hands, on Merlin, are busted and inflamed, his knuckles split.

“Why are you here, Arthur?” Merlin asks, blinking double time.

“I have to talk to you.”

“There’s nothing he wants to hear right now –“ Gwaine snarls. Merlin looks at Gwaine beseechingly.

“Don’t,” Arthur hears him murmur.

“Please, Merlin,” he tries, trying to meet Merlin’s eyes. It’s harder than it should be and he hates himself a little more.  
“Please.”

It works.

Merlin looks at Gwaine and then at Arthur and then back again.

“Give me ten minutes,” he tells Gwaine. Gwaine doesn’t like it.

“Ten minutes, Princess,” he scowls as he walks beyond Arthur and disappears into the apartment. Merlin stays where he is, the distance yearning between them. Arthur hates it, and himself.

But he’s here for a reason, and he’s not letting this go. He has to say it. He has to tell him.

“Why are you here, Arthur?” Merlin asks. He sounds tired.

“I just wanted to apologise. For what happened at the bar.”

“Shouldn’t you be saying this to Gwaine?” Merlin asks, sounding wary and a more than a little tired.

“No. Yes. I just… Gwen’s lost her job at the gallery. Elyan thought it was me. Thought I had it done.”

“And did you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“I just… I don’t know why I did what I did, Merlin. I reacted and you got hurt. I don’t want that. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“But you couldn’t care less about Gwaine, is that it?”

“Merlin – “ he tries to say but Merlin cuts him off this time, sounding irritated.

“No, Arthur. What you did to me was an accident, but you punched Gwaine in the face. You… you were hitting each other. You kept hitting each other. But you started it. That’s not something I can ignore, Arthur.”

“Why not? You ignore everything else.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I don’t know.”

“No, Arthur, what is that supposed to mean?”

“Fuck. I don’t – Christ, you seem to forgive him pretty fucking easy.”

“There’s nothing I have to forgive him for, Arthur! I’m not angry he protected himself when you decided to start punching people.”

“What about before, then? You nearly died, Merlin, and he was off in fucking Ireland. He comes back and you don’t even blink!”

Merlin looks hurt, then, and confused and Arthur’s in over his head far deeper than he thought he’d ever get.  
“That’s different, Arthur.”

“How?”

“He didn’t know. It wasn’t his fault.”

“You can’t tell me it didn’t hurt though. Why would you forgive him and not me? He was there tonight as well!”

“He didn’t start it, Arthur! It wasn’t his fault! Why are you so determined to hate him?”

“Because he doesn’t deserve you!”

“And since when do you get a say in who or what I deserve, Arthur? Your wife left you. You don’t get a say in my love life.“

“Why not?!”

“Seriously, Arthur?” Merlin snarls, incredulous.

“Why not? I love you. I do.” The words escape without thinking, but the moment they’ve left his tongue he can’t think of anything else to say. It’s the truth. It’s like a lightning bolt in the back of his head and he’s never been quite so sure about anything else in his life as those words right then.

Merlin’s always snuck under his skin better than anyone else he’s met in his life. He wormed his way deeper in Arthur’s heart before Arthur even realised there was real-estate up for grabs and by then he thought it was all Gwen’s.

Gwen took up space, but the only decent, good land had always belonged to the big-eared fool in front of him.

The fool whose eyes went round and terrified and who was taking a step backwards like this was the last thing he’d ever wanted to hear.

“Arthur – “ Merlin splutters and Arthur just wants him to understand everything. To be able to look into his eyes and just _know_ the way he used to be able to. The way he had at Uther’s funeral, the way he had when Arthur asked Gwen to marry him, the way Merlin’s done every day Arthur’s known him and needed him.

Right up until now.

“I didn’t understand, until Gwen, fuck, until right now - but you’ve been all I’ve been able to think about for weeks. _You_ have been all I’ve been able to think about, you and how jealous I’ve been every time he touches you. Every time he makes you smile and how it’s _not me_ doing it. It’s all I can think about. You’ve _always_ been all I’ve been able to think about, Merlin, and it’s only now I know it for what it is. Only now that I understand it. Understand why I was so annoyed when you were with Percy and Freya and all that time you spent with Morgana…You’ve always been the most important person in my life and the last few months have just – they’ve made it clear to me exactly what you mean to me. How much you mean to me. I’m in love with you, Merlin. I love you and I think I always have.”

“Stop.”

It takes him a moment for Merlin’s voice, brittle and vulnerable, to register, but when it does it echoes and suddenly his tongue won’t work.

“Just. Stop,” Merlin says again. His face has lost all its colour and he folds his arms in front of him, like he’s protecting himself and Arthur’s stomach makes a bid for his shoes. It drops like a stone.

“Please, Merlin – “ he tries and Merlin’s face snaps up to stares at him.

“Please, just listen to me – please let me show you I’m not lying. I’m not confused or – “

“STOP. Just _stop_!” he cries out and Arthur’s back to being unable to talk, because he can’t get it right. He can’t figure out a way to make him see that he can make him so much happier than Gwaine can. That he’s known him longer, that he’s been there, always, every time that Merlin’s needed him. Always and he always will be. Gwaine was in fucking _Ireland_ while Merlin was dying and Arthur was right outside that hospital room because the orderlies wouldn’t let him any closer. How does that make Gwaine better? How does that mean he can lose?  
“Please Arthur –“ he says and then Arthur realises with a jolt that Merlin’s crying.

“Merlin – “

“No!” Merlin snarls and that’s when the desperate crying morphs into something that’s possibly always been in his expression since this conversation began, this desperate anger that he was mistaking for something caring. Something mimicking his own feelings. In truth it’s nothing alike. It’s desperate, yes, but desperate for this to stop. For Arthur to shut up and take it all back so he can go inside to Gwaine and Arthur can go home to his flat and the life he has because he ruined it; because he made the mistake of kissing the wrong person a second time.

“I have never hated you in my life, Arthur, as much as I hate you right now,” Merlin croaks and for a moment Arthur thinks he’s hallucinating, that this is all some cruel dream, but it’s not. He’s not fallen asleep on Merlin’s front doorstep waiting for him. He’s awake and Merlin’s staring at him with something akin to what’s spurting out of his mouth.  
“I’ve never hated you, Arthur, but how _dare_ you – do you have any idea what you’re asking of me? I – I, I _hate_ you.”

“Merlin – “ he tries but Merlin won’t let him. It’s all there in the fierce glint of his eyes.

“No! No, Arthur. Did you even _think_ about what you’re saying? I’ve never expected to be anyone’s first choice, let alone yours, Arthur, but I am so much worthier than your seconds. Gwen is _gone_ , and I get what you’re feeling, Arthur I do. You were worried about me; I get it. But don’t for a second think that just because you’ve made up this love for me out of… of _fear_ or something stupid that I’m going to dump the best thing that’s ever happened to me and come running after you. I get that you’re scared, but I have never been so insulted in my _life_ – “

“That’s not it!” he splutters, but Merlin makes a sound in the back of his throat like an angry cat.

“I can’t – I can’t deal with you, right now. I need you to leave, Arthur.”

“Please, let me explain, Merlin – “

“Get out, Arthur.”

“Merli –

“Get out!”

Merlin steps out of his way as he walks towards the stairs. He doesn’t meet Arthur’s eyes but his chest is heaving and there are red flushes in his cheeks and the tips of his ears that Arthur commits to memory as he walks down the stairs.

He’s near the bottom flight when he hears the sound of the door slam on Merlins’ floor.

It follows him all the way home, looping in time with Merlin’s voice.

 _I hate you_.

The funny thing is, Arthur pretty much hates himself as well right then, and it’s not even something he can blame Merlin for.

*

 

No one had called him after he left the pub and there’s no one waiting for him when he finally finds himself back at his flat. The emptiness is in no way soothing and he spends the rest of the night getting stupidly acquainted with his father’s old scotch as an alternative to thinking his idiocy through again and again. It’s a good swap, he thinks, before passing out. When he wakes up on the floor the next morning, he’s next to his couch with infomercial’s still playing on his TV. His head is pounding and his mouth tastes like something died and it takes him a moment to realise why he’s punishing himself. But then it all comes back in one fell swoop and he wants to throw up.

It’s not the best way to start the weekend.

Not that it’s much of a weekend after that. When he finds his phone, one shower, change of clothes and two cups of coffee later, there still isn’t even a missed call or text message to feed the ravening curiosity for the repercussions of his actions. His finger hesitates as he stares down at Merlin’s number in his phone. The idiot’s stupid face smiling up at him, all blue eyes and cheeky smile, wearing a comedy moustache as he stares up at someone out of shot.

He doesn’t hit call; he can’t find it in himself, not against the overwhelming surge of disgust at himself as he remembers the look on Merlin’s face the night before. How lost he’d looked, like he hadn’t known who Arthur was.

He doesn’t call.

He puts his phone on the charge and stares at the ceiling until it blurs and then he packs his gym bag and goes for a run. He can feel the gaze of everyone else in the gym on his back but he doesn’t stop. He beats the treadmill into submission and keeps going until his knees start to wobble and he can barely stand.

Its dark when he finally leaves and when he gets home there’s a message blinking on his house answer phone.

No one ever calls him on the landline anymore. Work goes direct to his mobile, so does pretty much everyone else. It’s there for perfunctory reasons. People only call his house phone when they don’t want to actually talk to him.

He knows who the message is from even before he hits play. That doesn’t stop him pressing the button.

Arthur closes his eyes tight and just listens; sinking down onto the couch and knowing this is a conversation he doesn’t want to hear but he can’t tear himself away.  
“ _Ah, right. Hi Arthur,_ ” Merlin’s voice says, hesitant and unsure, so different to how it had sounded screaming at him to leave the last time Arthur had heard it.  
“ _I, er, I don’t really like doing this over the phone but I can’t look at you right now, so…_ ” Merlin sighs, long and low and right then Arthur knows what’s coming because this is what they do. This is how they resolve conflict. They don’t. They run away and this is something they can’t fix and right at that moment he can’t blame Merlin for a moment of it. He can’t figure out how to fix what he’d done last night either.

“ _Gwaine and I, well, we’re gonna go away for a while,_ ” phone Merlin says. “ _I think it’s best that we don’t see each other for a bit and Gwaine wants to show me where he grew up, so... Well, I don’t know when I’m going to get back, but I think it might do us both some good if we have some time to think? Everything that’s happened lately has been too much on everyone, I think. Especially you. I’m sorry for that, Arthur. What you told me, about, about how you felt for me – I just, I think it’ll help if we have some time apart to figure it all out. Everything got really messy the last few months and well, I used to dream about you saying what you did to me. But I’m not that same person anymore, Arthur, and well, you just broke up with Gwen. You just had your marriage fall out from under you and I don’t want to trivialise anything, but it was all a bit too soon for you and well, too late for me. I’m in love with Gwaine, and as much as I wanted you to love me for a long time, that’s not worth what I have now. I hope you can understand that and forgive me for it one day. I do love you; you’ve been my best friend for so long, Arthur, I can’t bear to lose you. But right now, I think some space will do the both of us some good. I’ll, err, I’ll see you when we get back to Camelot. Whenever that is. Um, yeah. Right. Bye.”_

He doesn’t throw the answering machine across the room.

But he’s tempted, and his fingers are still itching a minute later so he throws the handset across the room instead and then immediately feels stupid.  
But he doesn’t pick it up and he doesn’t try calling back.

Merlin’s gone, after all. Swept up by Gwaine and taken away from him while he was too thick to notice what a good thing he could have had.

 

*


	10. Part Ten

*

 

****Part Ten  
  
*  
  
 _“Love is an untamed force. When we try to control it, it destroys us. When we try to imprison it, it enslaves us. When we try to understand it, it leaves us feeling lost and confused.”_  
Paulo Coelho 

*

Merlin must have called Morgana before he left, or while he and Gwaine were on the road, or at the airport or however else they were getting wherever they’re going.  
Either way, the next morning Arthur wakes up to the noise of someone making coffee in his kitchen and an icy feeling in the air.

He guesses who it is long before he actually reaches the kitchen and is greeted by his sister’s back and the click of heeled boots on his tiles and a fierce little black dress despite the fact she’s nearly six months along and really can’t hide anymore that she’s pregnant. Morgana always did know how to dress for the occasion and she’s made it clear that something like having her own spawn isn’t going to change that. It’s strangely comforting.

“Finished writing my eulogy then?” he croaks as he pads across the floor to take up a seat on the other side of the kitchen side. Morgana just glares at him for a moment and goes about finishing the pot of coffee. Arthur watches her, how her slim fingers clench and clasp the decanter and each mug.  
“I’m angry with you, Arthur,” she says eventually.

“So am I,” he replies, waiting for the backlash that doesn’t seem to come.

“Just because you’re my brother it doesn’t mean in the slightest that I have to side with you,” Morgana says, in that same almost-detached voice.

“I know,” he says and meets her eye when she looks up at him, like she’s searching his gaze for something. He can’t tell if she finds it, but she finds something enough to keep talking.

“I understand why you got angry at Elyan, that I can justify. But do you have _any_ idea what you did to Merlin at all?” she asks, almost pleading and that’s what breaks him, really, is her sounding like that.

“I have some,” he says, looking down, unable to meet her eye again.

“But not all,” she sighs and brings a hand up to rub between her eyebrows for a moment. He watches, intently, waiting for her to explain, because Morgana had always been able to make up for what he missed. Where he missed empathy she made up for it, she had compassion in spades compared to him and she knew what to do with it despite her tendency to hold it back. But every now and again she let it all go and a part of him ached for the girl that she could have been, if their father hadn’t ruined them the way he had.

“He’s been in love with you for years, Arthur. Practically since the first time he met you. He’s never worn rose tinted glasses, but he’s loved you all the same.”

That shuts Arthur down, all the words fighting to escape, the justifications falling silent. _Since the day he met you._ How many years had gone by? How long had he let this skip his attention?

It’s like a rock settling in his stomach.

“He’s been an idiot pining for you for this long, but by god, Arthur, I am not about to let you screw everything up for him now he’s found someone who makes him forget about you. Just because you and Gwen fell apart does not mean you have any right to go trampling through Merlin’s happiness just because it’s taken you this long to realise he’s been standing there all this time.”

“Why didn’t he say anything?”

“Since when has Merlin ever said when he actually wants something? Since when have you thought of anyone else but Gwen? He never stood a chance, and he knows it. He hasn’t been perfect at doing anything about it, but he’s tried and he’s got a good thing with Gwaine, a _good thing_ , Arthur, and I can’t let you go ruining it. I won’t let you.”  
He sighs and nods.

“Good,” he says and looks up in time to catch her surprise.

“I’d have ruined him, Morgana. I’d have ruined him for my own selfish gain.”

“Oh Arthur,” his sister says instead, losing that harsh snap in her voice and replacing it with something compassionate.

“This doesn’t have to change anything, you know. You can still be his friend. You can still love him, but you just have to love him from afar.”  
“Is this you counselling me on relationships?”

“Yes, now shut up. Out of the two of us I’m the one who’s somehow turned out successful.”

“You’re unmarried and knocked up.”

“You’re divorced, having a sexuality crisis and in love with your best friend. Your problems win.”

Which just makes him laugh, but it’s perfectly true so he can’t argue with it at all.

“It’ll get better, you know,” Morgana says after a moment.

And isn’t that what they all say?

The worst part is that she’s right.  
  


*

 

Camelot is empty in the following weeks. Without Gwen and Lancelot and now Merlin and Gwaine, Arthur’s group is considerably smaller and lacking much of the vigour it once had. He’s been used to the dynamic changing since the group formed, really, but as a whole it’s founding members had always been Gwen, Morgana, Merlin and himself. Gwen is gone, this isn’t the first time Merlin’s taken respite from them, and well, he guesses he’s never going to truly get rid of Morgana, for which he’s actually eternally grateful.  
It’s not something he’s ever going to tell her, though.

It’s simply not what they do.

But if he’s honest, Arthur knows the biggest issue with him and the group is himself. With Gwen gone, Lance gone, Merlin and Gwaine gone, Elena avoiding them for good reason, Morgana pissed with him, Elyan pissed with him (and Arthur pissed with Elyan)… well there isn’t much left for Arthur to play with and he can’t really be bothered anyway. He likes Leon, of course, and he’s grown more than accustomed to Percy, but if the gossip is right, Elyan and Percy are shagging and Leon’s in bed with his sister and Arthur simply doesn’t have the energy to try and make peace with it all. So he does what he does best and tries to bury himself in his work.

And it works, for a while. It works for about a fortnight before the girls decide he needs his wake up call and by then he doesn’t have much of a choice, no matter how he fights.  
It begins on one of those odd days that stretch far longer than time really should have any right. It feels like hours have passed when Arthur checks his clock, feeling like he should be heading out for lunch when it’s not even quarter past ten. Admittedly it’s been two hours since he arrived at the office, but that doesn’t settle his nerves at all. He spends the first half of the day taking his increasingly edgy mood out on George, who seems completely infallible no matter what Arthur throws at him. When the man disappears around twelve o’clock in search of something Arthur’s pretty sure he made up, he’s almost ready to give in and call it a day. Despite the fact his in pile is just as large as it had been when he arrived and he’s pretty sure his emails have doubled since he last looked at them an hour ago. But he doesn’t get the chance.

He’s idly reading through the last brief from the financing department for Pendragon Commercial when Elena walks in and interrupts him.

“So, what’s this about you and Merlin?” she asks, in that curious and demanding way that reminds him of nearly every woman he’s ever had in his life. Or the interesting ones, anyway. She raises her eyebrows at him expectantly and for a moment he’s about to scoff and tell her not to be stupid, except this is Elena and considering their shared history over the last couple of months he doesn’t particularly want to toss her around. That being said, he’s not going to give up that easily.

“What’s what about me and Merlin? Last time I checked, Merlin and his boyfriend left the country,” he says instead, playing the uninterested card instead of the sharp and cutting card the way he wants to. It’s Elena’s fault. It’s his fault it’s Elena’s fault.

“So you haven’t slept with him yet,” Elena says and Arthur nearly topples over the pile of papers he was stacking. Elena’s lips curl into a little victory smile that looks a little sad.  
“What?” he splutters and gets nowhere. She just looks at him like all women do and walks a little closer to the desk.

“Merlin, Arthur,” she says, like she’s answering a question and when he doesn’t say anything she tuts and stares at him.

“Come on,” she says. “Stand up.”

“And where are we going?” he asks as she reaches out to grab him by the hand and drag him out of his office.

“We’ll be back,” Elena smiles at Helen as she drags him past and if this sort of thing hadn’t happened more than once before, Arthur would despair what sort of presentation he was giving to the rest of his staff. As such, no one blinks an eye.

The elevator is empty as they settle inside and as the metal doors close around them, Elena turns to look at him, expectant again.  
“So,” she says again. “Merlin.”

“Merlin,” he mimics, waiting for the next prompt. Elena doesn’t give it. Instead she turns to look at him for a good minute of intense staring and then her expression softens.  
“Look, Arthur,” she manages before stopping for a moment, taking a long breath before starting again.

“I’ve been angry at you, you know? I have. I was angry at you and at Lance and Gwen and myself, hell I was angry with everyone because for a while I thought someone must have seen something before it all happened. But it did and none of us had a clue, really. It’s taken me a bit to figure that out.”

“You had a right to be angry,” he offers and she laughs, then. A gentle tinkle that makes him wish for younger days.

“Oh, I know, Arthur. I do. But I also know that we were never really going to get very far, Lance and I. We didn’t quite gel the way we kept pretending we did, otherwise it wouldn’t have taken us so long to just be, you know? I kept thinking, afterwards, that maybe it was just the universe trying to push us all back to the way we used to be, back at university but that just seemed stupid? It is stupid, because we’re so different to how we were back then. We’re so different it’s laughable, really. But in other ways, it’s not. Because maybe now things that didn’t happen then, could happen now.”

“Like what?”

“Like you and Merlin.”

“There is no me and Merlin.”

“There will be. Have faith, darling. You just fit, you know? It makes sense, the way that Lance and I never quite did. I loved him, I did. And he hurt me, that’s true. But you and Merlin. You were just packaged. Back when we were dating, it was just… you were different to how you were in college. And I thought that was just time, you know? But there was something about you that was different and it was him.”

“I’m not really sure what you’re saying, you know.”

“Ha! Neither am I. I think, what I’m trying to say, is that don’t be afraid, Arthur. Just… be. He knows you and you know him and you’re perfect. You fit. And I envy that. I do. So just be patient and when the time comes… don’t screw it up, okay? Or I’ll have to hurt you.”

Arthur laughs then, because she looks earnest about it and a part of him is actually a little bit wary, because a girl she may be, but he knows she could hurt him if she wanted to, even if he wanted to hit her back.

“We were friends first, you know. I dated you.”

“Yes, Arthur, but Merlin’s darling and you’re infuriating.”

In that moment he wants to remind her that he’s the one standing here, not Merlin, Merlin who’s run off again, pretending his problems don’t matter and isn’t that more infuriating than Arthur? But apparently it’s not because Elena just peers at him expectantly and he gives in.

“I should have known,” he scoffs and she smiles, wide and beaming in that way she has before she giggle-snorts and ruins it.

“You know what we haven’t done in ages? Riding. We should go riding!” she declares and he casts a glance at her, all dolled up in a bespoke suit and her blonde hair carefully styled in a way that she only ever attempts when she’s heading into the office and he suddenly misses the way they were. He misses her in jeans and mud under her nails, hair fly-away and sticking out from under her riding helmet.

“You’re on,” he agrees and the way she smiles is brilliant.

And that’s the beginning. For the first few days after his fight at the Sun, Arthur had been sure he’d fucked up more than he ever had before. Elyan had been furious with him and after his debacle with Merlin and what happened after… Merlin has always been the likable one. He’s always made friends easily and found this way to seal those bonds into stone. Arthur always felt his relationships have settled on rocky ground. All it would take is one wrong move and they’d be gone.

The weeks after Merlin leaves are unsettling but also slightly relieving. Their group isn’t what it used to be. No one shows up randomly at his front door anymore and Arthur at the very least avoids the Rising Sun like the plague. He misses Merlin showing up at work with coffee more than he has in months and even misses Gwen showing up and taking him out to lunch. He misses people and his days become longer, slowing to a draining crawl while he’s at work and dragging wearily when he’s at home. What’s worse is the way the flat seems to amplify everyone’s absence, because no one visits him there either. He’s lived in East Towerton for nearly ten years now. Well, eight… or something, longer than he cares to think about. He’s lived in the place on his own, and then with Kay and then Merlin, and then Gwen and then when Gwen moved out, it had been full of people constantly coming and going. Merlin had been back, and Gwaine had stayed more often than not and the place had been full of noise and life and he hadn’t really had time to feel the consequences from the fact that his wife and all those things that had made this flat their home, were missing.

Gwen had wanted to move somewhere different, eventually. She’d laid the foundations in his head already. She’d wanted a house – somewhere she could create a home and eventually, somewhere they could raise their kids. It had been their plan. Or her plan. A plan.

Arthur had never really thought it through, but it had seemed inevitable, like death and taxes. That’s the route his life had just seemed to be heading down.  
Now, now he is alone and the flat holds more memories than he is comfortable having. So he decides to get rid of it, and almost immediately his friends show up out of the woodwork.

Out of all the things Helen has caught him doing since he’s gone into work, working up the courage to go much further than the front page of the local real estate agency was not something he was particularly proud of, and the woman had caught him staring endlessly at a cat meme Merlin had emailed him right before his accident, the last email in his in-box that his friend had sent.

The possibility of moving on from his old life completely is utterly, bewilderingly daunting. But it’s something he’s decided he really needs to do. His house is suffocating.  
“Would you like some help?” she asks, standing idly on his right hand side, peering down at the screen.

“I don’t know.”

“Perhaps a holiday might be of use, Sir?”

“No. No, a new house will do. I don’t need to leave the city,” he says, knowing how ridiculous he sounds but he can’t really figure out how to articulate how he feels. How stuffy the house is, how he just desperately wants to keep to something familiar, something normal, but he just really, really can’t keep going back to that flat that just screams at him about everything he’s fucked up. He can’t keep going back to those ghosts.

“Just your home as you know it, then?” Helen asks, a hint of humour in her voice but sadness in her eyes. Like she knows everything. Including what’s best for him.

“Yes.”

“It is a perfectly hospitable bachelor pad, sir.”

“And I am a divorcee, Helen. I need a new house. Find me something would you?”  
“I have better things to do, sir, you do it.”

So he does.

And then he has George organise everything else. He barely bothers really looking much at all. He’d scrolled through the first page of available apartments in North Lowerton, needing a change of pace, selected the first one that didn’t appal him and made George book an appointment with the realtor.

He found it disastrously simple.

A fortnight later he finds the contract on his desk, a young realtor trying to hide his glee at finalising and both Elena and Morgana rolling their eyes at him while he signs it.  
“You do realise, Arthur, that your insurance premiums on that damn car of yours just went up like 300%, don’t you?” Elena says with an air of disdain Morgana must be envious of.  
“You deal with it,” he tells her and earns an eye roll in return.

“I’m your lawyer, Arthur, one of five. I’m your favourite, but one of five – and out of those five people, not a single one of them deals with your insurance. Get your assistant to do it.”  
“Tell him what he needs to do then, but stop nagging me.”

“We’re not nagging, Arthur,” Morgana says, shaking her head at him and sounding very much like she’s nagging. “We’re simply pointing out the fact that you’ve bought a premium piece of real estate in a suburb that is a complete disaster. You never would have blended in during university, let alone now.”

“I’m perfectly happy with my purchase, thank you,” he tells them, even though he couldn’t actually care less about the house itself.  
“Did you even look at the place before you bought it?”

“Of course I did.”

“Did you actually go, or did you send George?” Morgana sniffs and Arthur tries to take affront before he remembers a similar conversation with Helen and stops.  
“I _have_ actually seen my new apartment, Morgana. I’m not going to move somewhere that I haven’t seen before,” he tells them, pretending that he wouldn’t have been perfectly content with moving in based on George’s opinion alone. Had they not met the man?

“Well thank god for that, you’d think he’s lost his mind,” Morgana says, her sarcasm actually painful to listen to.

“Regardless of whether I have or have not gone completely insane, Morgana, I needed somewhere new to live, so I found somewhere. It’s as simple as that. If I find it to my distaste I’ll move again. It’s not that hard.”

“Well, if it’s that simple then,” Morgana mocks and Arthur puts down the progress report from the Advertising Department and scowls at her. He’s not spent too much time in his sister’s company in the last three weeks, but of the little he has she’s seemed more and more determined to remind him of her emotional imbalance. Her hormones have been making her more irritable and unstable and it’s strongly reminding him of the time when they were thirteen and she got her first period and he spent the next twelve months hiding from her pretty much constantly while puberty did it’s damage. When they’d come out the other side she’d figured the process out or something, with the help of several friends, the school nurse and two of the house staff (it had been a conspiracy, he swore) and had breasts, leering boys following her around and a scathing repertoire of insults she’d honed. Arthur had grown four inches and his voice had broken.

It had taken them another two months to get reacquainted with each other after that, really, which they’d hidden under insults and never stopped.

This is the same. He has that same burgeoning desire to hide and only see her once or twice when he has to (and never in a locked room) until she’s finished growing and actually spits out the baby.

Then he’ll happily deal with her opinions on his life again.

Until then he just wants to wallow, really, because there’s nothing else to it. His wife is gone; his best friend hates him and has run off rather than help Arthur deal with his problems.  
Which he almost hates Merlin for, because he’s tried to be there for Merlin through everything, and now that Arthur needs him, he’s gone off with the swanky, long haired git who according to Morgana climbed the tree outside the window of Merlin’s apartment like some idiotic Romeo who never learned to shave or get a haircut.

“Look, I’ve signed the papers, it’s happening. Deal with it,” he scowls, too tired with the conversation to continue. “I’m not asking you and your beach ball to visit me, Morgana. I’m just finding somewhere new to live. Is that enough? Because if it is then I’d like to get back to work; there’s a new group of graphic designers that I’d like to review.”

He’s expecting retribution for calling her baby a beach ball but he makes a point of looking back at the reports in front of him and ignoring the pair of them until they leave.  
It takes five minutes but then he hears the door on the office click shut and he lets out the breath he’d been holding, rubbing his eyelids, feeling weary. A feeling he hasn’t been able to shake since he first heard Merlin’s message on his answering machine.

 

*

 

For some reason (he suspects foul play, but no one will agree with him) it takes nearly three weeks after he signs the contract to get the deeds and keys to his new house when the realtor had told him it’d would be pretty much immediate, the house had been empty that long. The kid splutters and apologises over the phone when he calls ahead to alert Arthur to the fact he can now bloody well move out of the apartment he’s been spending less and less time in than ever. The last four days prior to the call he’s slept on the couch at work and woken to Helen coming in looking displeased to find him there again.

It’s been so long he’d forgotten what the new place looked like until he arrives two days later after having George organise movers ASAP.

It’s smaller than his last place, but it’s still two bedrooms, for which a part of him is glad as he wanders around the place between the boxes being unloaded from the truck out front. The kitchen and living room are separate rooms this time, instead of one large open area plan. Everything comes off one single, long hallway that ends in a blank wall he winds up hanging the picture of his mother Merlin had drawn him all those years ago. It’s not something he can throw away or hide and he lets out a held breath as he stares at it, ignoring the heaving bustle of the movers trying to get his couch through the front door.

It takes the movers most of the day to drag everything from the first place to the second, and while it’s part of their contract to unpack most of it, Arthur shoes the last of them out when he gets back from a walk around the block. They got most of it sorted, arranged around the place in a design clearly organised by men – nothing quite fits properly, not like his apartment had been when he first moved in all those years ago. Uther had some indoor decorator furnish both apartments after he bought them and all but shoved the keys in Arthur’s face. It hadn’t been quite as much of a ‘get out now’ card as Arthur had sort of seen it at the time, but rather a gift of semi-independence that he’d later learned to cherish.  
He’s still not quite sure what it is he’s currently doing. He’s moved four suburbs north of his previous address, into an area known for it’s redevelopment and populated by a majority of university students. It’s the type of neighbourhood Merlin had lived in before he’d lived with Arthur. The Uni campus is within walking distance, practically, and it brings back a sharp nostalgia he didn’t anticipate the first few times he drives past. It takes him longer to get to work of a morning, stuck in the long line of idiot teenagers driving their cars to university, and after the first week where he’d tried to get to work at a reasonable hour, he gave up and went in early, before any of the tits in their Volkswagens and Beetles and silly broken down Citroens are even _awake_.

But there’s an abundance of nice little café’s that make good coffee in the neighbourhood because if there’s one thing uni kids are good for, it’s sussing out the good fuel. Better still, there’s a bunch of take-away places within walking distance that make up most of his eating habits over the first fortnight. But on the Friday afterwards, he leaves PenInc earlier than usual and takes himself to the supermarket. It’s oddly soothing, walking around and filling his trolley with anything he desires and vaguely remembers from his old pantry. There’s little chance he’s ever going to actually use self-raising flour himself, really, because while he can run a company and he can ride horses and remembers pretty much most of his high school French, he can’t for the life of him cook worth a damn. Still, it’s only when he fills the pantry back home and goes about burning his own first meal that it feels like he’s christened the place. There’s still a whole bunch of stuff still in boxes, but as a majority he can’t really remember what was in them and he doesn’t seem to be missing much either. Life goes on pretty regularly. He goes to work and comes home and he’s okay with that. It’s dull, repetitive and it still feels empty in his chest in the wake of his old life and the people he had in it, but it’s easy, really. His midlife crisis is blatantly obvious to everyone he still associates with and naturally Morgana is the first to intervene. He doesn’t get much choice at all the Saturday after he moves in. He’s been spending his weekends in his lounge room at the old flat making a moat around himself out of progress reports and cost reports, earnings reports, outgoing reports…

Lots of paper.

It’s been a dull way to spend his two days of otherwise-freedom every week and he knows it. That doesn’t stop him from planning to spend every weekend for the infinite future in similar fashion, but Morgana seems to take his move as a sign that he wants things to change. So she forces it upon him.

Which is how he finds himself really rather missing the quiet loneliness as he and Leon stand awkwardly in the middle of the aisle trying not to get in anyone’s way.  
For a shop that sells primarily things for _infants_ there are an extortionate amount of toddlers running around them, screaming.

“This is your fault,” he tells Leon solemnly, thinking not only of the grudging plea in his friend’s eye as he’d opened his front door to Morgana two hours ago, but the whole situation indeed.

“Condoms don’t take that much effort you know.”

“Shut up, Arthur.”

“Remember that when you’re chasing one of _them_ around,” he says, eyeing a small boy chasing a girl, both of them screaming, their mother – bursting out of her maternity jeans, dear god – ignores them. Even though Morgana has actually started showing (and daring people to call her fat in the process) he’s been forced to realise that he hadn’t actually processed the fact that Mor0gana and Leon _were going to have a baby_ right up until now. It’s really, really hit him now, what with his sister running off a list of items to an already somewhat harassed looking shop assistant, looking all the world like she knows _exactly_ what she’s doing.

She’s a far cry away from the woman who had seemed so terrified admitting it to him all those weeks ago. But then again, they’ve been through enough. Buying shit for a midget human that hasn’t arrived yet is almost a walk in the park.

Still, Helen had told him the other day (after he’d made an alarmed comment, post another Morgana hurricane visit) that a woman turns into a mother the moment she finds out she’s pregnant.

That must be the case, because the memories he has of his sister feature very little maternal instincts. In fact, he has a rather vivid memory of a nine-teen year old Morgana staring at a pair of toddlers once with such distaste he’d been surprised the children hadn’t burst into flames, and that had been before she’d even opened her mouth to scathingly declare she was _never_ going to spawn, _ever_.

He might have won a bet over that now, actually.

Beside him, Leon makes a noise in his throat and Arthur follows his line of sight over to a couple near the back of the store. Arthur frowns, not quite understanding Leon’s plight until he sees the two small children just behind them, a girl dragging a younger boy around the condola pointing at things like reading off a shopping list. It’s sort of cute.  
Arthur can’t help it; he laughs and ignores the dirty scowl Morgana throws back at him. The kids strongly remind him of his own childhood growing up with Morgana, trailing around in her wake listening to her order him around. It hasn’t changed much over the years. Right up to the fact he’s only here for one purpose, really – for the heavy lifting. Morgana had rented an atrocious mini-van and informed them both it was their job to make sure everything fit. Arthur’s pretty sure that his sister is setting out to buy everything the store stocks, because there’s a dignitary posture in the store clerk now that practically _screams_ percentage commission. The woman would probably lick Morgana’s shoes if she asked.

“Still have no idea what it is yet?” he asks Leon, eyeing his old friend with this strange fondness after that. Leon’s expression is soft as he watches the kids at the back of the room tramping around putting things in their basket while their parents talk about a new pram. Leon jolts and his expressions tightens as he collects himself.

“Eh, no. No. You should know that. Morgana’s insistent it’s a surprise. She figures if she has to go through all this then she deserves a surprise at the end. My mother seems to think it’s a girl.”  
“Oh?”

“Something Morgana said about craving burgers. Apparently that’s a sign in our family. Both my aunts craved burgers for weeks and they all had girls. Seems a bit bogus to me. But I’ll let them have it.”

Arthur chuckles for a moment but then his eyes draw towards a young couple wondering over from the clothes section, a small bundle curled in the young man’s arms and despite it all, despite everything, for the first time Arthur feels a deep seated pang for what he could have had.

If things had turned out the way he’d intended six months ago, it could have been Gwen standing up there with Morgana, it could have been him with that little bundle of blankets.  
Fuck, he thinks, and clears his throat. He was totally not at all prepared for that sort of thought.

He banishes the idea quickly, just in time for Morgana to turn towards them and beckon with a glare and a crooked finger.  
“Jennifer’s about to go and get the bassinet and crib. Follow, helper monkeys.”

In the days following, Arthur has to give a lot of credit to his sister. While at the time she seems determined to give him as much work as possible, dragging him around all Saturday shopping for the nursery, she makes Sunday into a day of _putting the shit all together_ because, apparently, no matter how much you pay for things, most of it still comes in flat packs for some God-awful reason. He’d been lucky enough to miss the drama of painting the room, which had once upon a time been Gwen’s. A fact he remembers as Morgana orders he and Leon to drag the bookcase into the corner because even a fresh coat of paint can’t disguise the dent in the wall; a dent created by the corner of Gwen’s bedstead bumping while they’d shagged. Morgana thankfully mistakes the red blush in his cheeks as him tiring, which winds up initiating two hours worth of call backs on his somewhat lagging masculinity. By the end of it he can’t help but be rather proud of his self control, because after spending the day rearranging the bloody room to suit Morgana’s taste (while she stood on yelling orders like an Army general) he has very little interest in informing her that the room her child is going to spend a good majority of it’s life in, has also been the room he had shagged Gwen in. Repeatedly. On multiple surfaces.

It takes both Sunday and Monday afternoon to get the room to Morgana’s liking and then another weekend to get the bloody pram put together as well. It takes both him and Leon together hours trying to sort the bloody thing out, and strangely ends in Elena, of all people, hitting them both over the head and fitting it all together in ten minutes.

Arthur still has no idea how she’d done it, too. He’d simply watched in awe as she’d made things fit together that didn’t seem to belong and somehow ended up with a fully functional pram.

There was one piece left over, but in an act of mutual self-preservation, neither Elena, Leon or Arthur let Morgana know of it.

In the end though, much to his chagrin, helping Morgana and Leon baby-proof their house winds up being the perfect distraction from the mess of his life. He spends his lunchtimes texting Morgana obscene baby names for her reaction and gets an unabated joy from making George deliver a run of specially printed ‘Introducing MORE-DREAD PENDRAGON’ announcement cards after Leon quietly admits she’s dreading deciding on her favourite name. The price of the specialty printing is worth double for the furious phone call from Morgana he gets after that. Even Helen cracks a smile as they listen to Morgana on speakerphone yelling at him: “ _how dare you say my baby’s dreadful!_ ”  
Which hadn’t entirely been his intention, but given her ability to lose her keys and put butter in the cupboard lately, he lets it go with a temperamental – “ _I’m not saying the baby’s dreadful, Morgana, all I’m saying is that it’s your spawn; I’m simply dreading it in general._ ”

Which had been enough to send her off ranting once again.

On a whole it’s nice, it’s comforting… it’s almost enough for him to forget Merlin.

But only almost.

 

*


	11. Part Eleven

*

 

****Part Eleven  
  
*  
  
 _All my life, my heart has yearned for a thing I cannot name. _  
__Andre Breton

  
*

 

He’s been vaguely aware of the fact that, while Merlin hadn’t deigned to talk to him at all while he was away, he _had_ , in fact, maintained contact with Morgana. And by ‘vaguely aware’, he means he didn’t really think of it until he heard Morgana tell Leon that Merlin had somehow managed to survive the bike riding while he was leeching their hospitality one afternoon, nearly three months after Merlin had run off.

In the wake of Merlin’s absence in his life, he’d somehow convinced himself without meaning to, that by ignoring him, he had been ignoring everyone. But then he just feels like an idiot after that, because it’s Merlin and Morgana and of course they would have kept in touch.

He’s a little annoyed that Morgana hasn’t been telling him what Merlin is doing, but then, that would have negated the point of having some space.

He listens quietly as Leon laughs and the pair of them talk a little quieter for a moment, broken only as Leon laughs again, a loud bursting chuckle and then a few footsteps later comes back into the living room with Morgana following after.

There isn’t long until Morgana bursts, just a little over a month now – or perhaps less; Arthur isn’t entirely engrossed in the whole details thing. The last thing he really wants to focus on is that period of time and whether or not he can mentally pinpoint the time when his oldest friend and his sister inadvertently fucked over all advancements on birth control. All he knows is that there is always more bags of stuff to unpack whenever he goes over to visit, that any woman he knows who has some association with Morgana – even Helen, Elena and Mithian, for God’s sake – are all displaying some bizarre form of baby mania, or at the very least, glee at the confusion of it all. What’s worse is Morgana herself, wandering around the place looking like she’s about to take off, waddling and swearing and holding her back as she walks. Leon, it seems, turns into a carrier monkey, a masseuse and a chef and for some bizarre reason just seems to look more satisfied with himself about it all.

So while visiting the Cameliard/Pendragon household had been somewhat good for his socialisation skills for a while, Arthur starts attempting to do other things. For the first time since he and Gwen got married, he starts going to the movies. He sits in the dark and tries to pretend he doesn’t find a majority of the films underwhelming, unsatisfying or just plain irritating, which he probably figures has very little to do with the films themselves and more to do with himself. He goes into bookshops for a while, after he gets bored with the cinema, aimlessly browsing and buying a selection of _Our staff recommend!_ He doesn’t read them.

In the end, work seems to be the only thing he can force himself to focus on. There haven’t been any more spectacular failures in his giant machine since the warehouses burning down, and since the rush of getting back on their feet they’ve been going smoothly. The contractors have been taking their time rebuilding, but it’s getting there. He spends the Wednesday wandering around in an Armani suit and a yellow hard helmet unintentionally intimidating the on-site construction crew as they’re fitting the floors on the third level. He goes home that night smelling of sawdust and emailing George that he’s going to need a new pair of shoes, because Italian leather just can’t quite handle construction sites.  
He spends the next day harassing Mithian, who pretends she can’t see right through him.

“I thought you said you trusted me, Pendragon?” she goads as he follows her down from her office to the lower levels and the printing stations.  
“I do, that doesn’t mean I can’t keep an eye on things.”

“No one like a micromanager, Arthur,” she smiles at him over her shoulder.

“That’s ‘no one likes a micromanager, _Mr Pendragon,_ ’” he quips, enjoying the way her laughter echoes around the high ceilings. He can’t pretend that he doesn’t like Mithian, she’s accepting and beautiful and doesn’t bring up the fact that they’ve slept together. It had been a good idea at the time. Maybe. Arthur’s not quite so sure anymore. Too much has changed for him, and he’s not sure of how much she knows, but she’s perceptive enough to know that nothing else is going to happen between them. She probably made that decision herself afterwards, or maybe before, but it’s only now that Arthur’s caught up on his own. He should probably be thankful she’s even talking to him at all, given the way that he just got awkward and flustered and ignored her afterwards.

In the end it doesn’t really matter what he does to keep himself occupied, because he still can’t quite shift the little part of him that knows something is missing. He can try all he likes during the day to keep that part quiet, buying things and ordering people around, going to the gym and wearing his body out – it doesn’t matter in the end, because at night when he closes his eyes and tries to drift off the bed feels too empty and cold. Or when his phone buzzes in his pocket he can’t help but hope for a moment that it’s Merlin. When he boils the kettle he pulls down two mugs by default and a part of him jolts as he puts one back. It doesn’t seem to matter that he’s in a completely new flat, trying to keep his life together and get some control over what he wants and where he wants to go with his life from this point on. It all just keeps leaning back towards that little hole in the back of his head that’s like the TARDIS – so much bigger on the inside.

So after so much radio silence, it throws him off balance a little bit when he opens the door one inconspicuous day to find Merlin blinking idly at him, looking nervous.

“Merlin?” he asks, sounding surprised. Merlin winces.

“What are you doing here?” he asks and Merlin blushes and looks down at his shoes for a moment, like the battered converse hold all the answers.  
“Can I come in?” he asks instead of answering and Arthur nods, immediately throwing the door open a little wider. There are still boxes stuffed around the room and it’s his turn to wince, he can feel Merlin looking at them all as he slips inside with a tepid smile. His hands slip inside his pockets and there’s still a stiff line to his shoulders that makes Arthur, in turn, feel uncomfortable.

“Still unpacking?” he asks, turning to face Arthur; Arthur shrugs.

“I never managed to find the time.”

“You’ve been here a while though.”

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging again. Merlin scrunches his face up and Arthur wants to laugh because it’s so Merlin, the Merlin of so many years ago, the Merlin of 3am drunk conversations on the couch. But this is a new flat. A new place that has no history of Merlin’s expressions, no secrets and smiles, no accusations or denials. It’s new and empty and full of boxes because he hasn’t been able to commit to the place yet. He’s still too caught up in everything else and pretending that he’s not.

“So you’re finally back?” he settles on after a moment of quiet and Merlin nods.

“Yeah.”

“Have a good trip then?”

“It was nice.”

“Good.”

It’s too stilted, too awkward. Arthur clears his throat and heads towards the kitchen because he can’t stand in the hallway and pretend to make conversation with a man he just wants to catalogue and commit to memory. 

“Arthur – “ Merlin calls after him as he turns tail and heads towards the kettle.

“I’m glad you had a good time, Merlin.” He says, sounding painfully passive aggressive even to his own ears.

“Is this how we’re going to do this, Arthur?” Merlin asks, sounding disappointed. Arthur snorts.

“How would you like to do this, then? Did you bring a slideshow over for me to look at?”

“Don’t be juvenile. I came here to talk.”

“About what?”

“About what happened!”

“You want to talk about what happened, Merlin? I’ll tell you what happened, I told you I loved you and you ran away.”  
“You punched Gwaine in the face!”

“You ran away! You always run away, you run away in your head, you run away from arguments, or you just pack up and disappear instead of facing what’s happened and working through it.”

“Like you’re any better, Arthur,” Merlin snarls.

“At least I try.”

“Yeah, when the problem is half over! You’re ignorant, Arthur. Oblivious to everything unless it’s spelled out for you. Well, some people can’t wait around for it to be so easy.”

“Easy? You think I’ve had it easy? Merlin, Gwen left me, because of you. I nearly lost you for good. And by the time I figured out how I felt, you just ran away. I spent months trying to figure out how I felt for you. Months. I had to sit by your bedside and hope that you’d wake up for _days_. I had to stand by and watch you hurting, angry because this kept happening to you and I couldn’t stop it. Angry because you wanted him, you needed him and we couldn’t find him. I was right there and I wasn’t enough. And I spent months, feeling like a stranger in my own bloody house, but I couldn’t leave you. So don’t tell me I had it _easy_ , Merlin. Because you know _nothing_.”

Merlin’s just gawping at him. His mouth open like a fish until he nervously closes it and worries his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Arthur,” he tries, tentatively and that’s enough to set him off again. Everything he’s kept quiet, kept safe inside his chest, in that little black hole in the back of his head – it all just spills out.

“You know, when I answered the door after your accident, there were two police officers standing there and for a minute all I could hear in my head was this rushing sound and everyone’s names. I was terrified. But all I can remember is that your name was first. Out of everyone – before they’d even said a word, it was your name first. Not Morgana’s, yours.”

“Please don’t do this, Arthur,” Merlin whispers, but by now he can’t stop. He just wants to make Merlin hurt in this moment just as much as Merlin had made him.

“I need you to know, Merlin. She’s my sister; my _sister_ , and you were the first person I thought of. You’ve always been the first person I think about. Always.”  
“Don’t do this, Arthur. I can’t keep doing this.”

“Why, why not?”

“Because you were never going to figure it out! And there’s no point pretending that you were!” Merlin shouts. “I was _always_ just going to be ‘Merlin, your idiot best friend’. _Nothing else_. I couldn’t keep waiting, Arthur.”

“I would have figured it out eventually. All you had to do was give me time!”

“How much? How much time? Six years?” Merlin cries, sounding a little hysterical and Arthur blanches, even as he continues.

“Because that’s how long I waited. I gave you _six years_ and I’m sorry, but I got sick of waiting. I shouldn’t even have _been_ waiting. I loved other people, Arthur, but I was always going to leave in an instant if you said you wanted me and I hated myself for that. I was disgusted, but I kept doing it and eventually I got sick of hating myself, of waiting for you to realise that you didn’t love Gwen. _Gwen_ , who has been my friend longer than you have and all I could think was how much I wanted that to be _me_. I couldn’t wait anymore, Arthur, and Gwaine makes me feel like he’s been waiting for _me_. He makes me feel like I never have before, like the way I always thought you would make me feel. And the best part is when I’m with him I don’t even _remember_ how much I love you. I love him enough that I forget and I’m sorry, but I can’t give that up. I won’t.”

Arthur can feel a rock forming somewhere in his gut, then, this weight that he knows if he was to jump into Lady’s Lake that he’d just sink straight to the bottom because this is worse than the hallway, this is worse than anything he’s thought about in the last few months when his brain isn’t tired enough to just switch off, because this is real. It’s real and it’s Merlin saying no.

“And I shouldn’t ask you to,” he manages to croak and Merlin still looks forlorn, like he’s not quite sure what he’s doing and Arthur knows that there’s something there for him to have. Something he could draw out of Merlin if he tried hard enough. But he also knows that it wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be fair to Merlin and he’d never be able to live with himself if he did.

He can’t ask him to put Gwaine aside, not when he’s seen firsthand how much Gwaine adores him.

Merlin is breathing hard and his eyes are bright and glassy when Arthur looks up at him then. He’s fighting to not gnaw at his bottom lip and there’s got to be more he wants to say because he’s still standing there, still staring and waiting. But Arthur can’t. With this, he just can’t.

“I’m glad you’re back, Merlin,” he says instead. Something catches in Merlin’s throat, a tiny sound that could have been a growl or a sob or a number of other things. Merlin just nods and stares at his shoes for a bit.

“Yeah,” he finally says. “Me too.”

He shuts the door quietly on his way out, leaving Arthur standing by his just-boiled kettle and two cups.

Arthur makes himself an Irish coffee and settles down into his couch, staring at his turned off TV and listening to the faint sounds of life outside his flat.

He lets his mind wander that night. Lets those fantasies he’s held back for weeks go free – nights alone with Merlin, his hand tight in Arthur’s. His bare skin against Arthur’s own. The feel of his lips and his fingers. The warmth of his laughter and his sleep-driven body. He imagines what it’s like to hear his secrets and his desires. To share in that impossible strength that’s always been Merlin’s. That astounds and confounds him. It has never mattered what’s happened to him – and things have, again and again that would break a normal man - and Merlin has persevered. He has overcome, in his own way. Merlin is a man who knows how it is to be vulnerable and Arthur wonders in that moment what it would be like to be the man who makes Merlin stop running. Stop retreating into himself. He wonders whether that’s Gwaine, whether the long haired larrikin figured that out months ago and whether or not their trip was Merlin running away from him or whether it was Gwaine’s idea, Gwaine doing what needed to be done for Merlin. Gwaine giving Merlin something that no one else ever had. What Arthur never had.

Assurance that he was loved.

Merlin had waited for Arthur for six years. For six years he had loved him and believed that Arthur could be what Merlin wanted, what he needed – could make him happy. Until now, until Gwaine.

But that didn’t matter, because if Merlin had been so sure, then Arthur had to try. Because the more he thought about the words he’d said in heat of the moment – to Merlin, to Gwen, to Morgana… The more he thought about it the more self aware he became. The more he realised that Merlin had indeed always been there. Always been exactly what Arthur needed. Always been the foundations to anything else that happened. Uther had died and Merlin had been there, Gwen had helped, he had been comforted by her. But the real help had been Merlin. His quiet strength and determination.

Time and time again, no matter what it was, Merlin had always been there.  
Merlin had waited for him.

And now it was his turn.

His fingers shake as he types into his phone.

 

 **To: Idiot**  
19:22  
It doesn’t matter  
how long it takes.  
I will wait for you

 

He presses send before he can stop himself and refuses to look at his phone again that night.

By the next morning Merlin hasn’t replied and Arthur knows he won’t. So he puts it from his mind and tries to continue as he had before. Except he can’t.  
It’s sheer luck that carries him through the following days.

He gets up and goes to work and once the clock reaches six he goes home. He keeps the routine, goes to the gym, goes shopping for groceries and reads profit reports in bed with the lamp on.

He waters his houseplant and wonders at the sheer impossibility that it’s still alive. He contemplates whether or not it had a blue pot or a red one when he bought it and whether or not Morgana had been using the key he cut for her to replace his dead plants.  
He pretends he’s okay.

He pretends that he doesn’t care about what Merlin said to him, about what Elena had told him all those weeks ago now. About how they fit. How he had to patient.  
It was hard to be patient knowing that Merlin was fighting so hard to be with Gwaine. So adamant that Arthur had his chance and he missed it. He blew it before he knew it was even there.

He pretends he’s okay.

And then, one day, some innocuous number of days since Merlin let himself out of Arthur’s house, he nearly trips over something sitting in the middle of his hallway when he gets home from work.

Swearing he bends down to pick up whatever it is that’s tripped him up and he stops mid reach. Staring at the rectangular package wrapped in brown paper, something about it makes his stomach jolt, makes all the air in his lungs disappear and for a moment he’s an idiot kneeling in the hallway staring at a brown package just in front of his shoes.  
He breathes low and deep and then, with his courage intact reaches out to pick up the package. It’s heavy and familiar, but he doesn’t let his mind wander. He forces himself to focus on just the weight of it in his hand and he sets his laptop bag on the floor at his feet. Only then does he reach out and start prying away the Sellotape keeping the thing together. He can still feel his heart pounding as he pries the last of it aside and pulls out an A4 sketchbook bound in faux leather and bursting with paper. It’s just a single book, but there are extra pages threaded through the damn thing, snatches of paper of every grade and texture, from stiff, thick card to soft napkins as he runs his thumb along the edge and with his heart in his throat now, he opens it.  
It’s exactly what he’d feared.

There’s no chance in his life that he’d ever mistake the hand that had drawn the image staring back at him. It’s his own face and it sort of makes him squirm, but it’s so lifelike, so much like the photo-realistic drawing of him and his mother that Merlin had drawn all those years ago. The drawing that he treasures, that’s framed and mounted on the wall just beyond him now, just as it had sat on his bedside table for so many years now.

Nervous, he turns the first page and finds another drawing, this time of himself curled up on the couch, facing away from where Merlin had been sat, his back to him, just enough for some odd placement of limbs and curling hair that had drawn his housemate’s eye. Again he turns the page and page after page it’s something different but it’s all him – his eyes, his hands, his hair. Laughing, frowning, concentrating. There’s Elena stretching over him with her short spiked hair and huge eyes. Then there’s Gwen with her curls; there’s Leon and him sitting either end of the couch, eyeing each other askance. Page after page he flicks through parts of his life seen through Merlin’s eyes and it’s disturbingly beautiful and that feeling of being watched settles into him and he looks up and there’s Merlin again, standing at the end of the hallway like he has been every time Arthur’s needed him for years now.

“Hey,” Merlin says, shrugging, his fringe finally long enough to be distracting, falling in his eyes, the rest of his hair unruly and curling up around his ears. It doesn’t matter that he’s broken into Arthur’s new house, where no one but he and Morgana has a key... and his thought cuts off there with a small smile.

“Hay is for horses Merlin,” he says, bracing himself, looking down at the book again. Out the top of his peripheral vision he can see Merlin shifting uncomfortably.

“What is this?” he finally asks, looking up. That just serves to make Merlin even more uncomfortable and for a moment Arthur’s annoyed that the idiot couldn’t figure out what the hell he was doing here with this bloody book before he bloody well came. But then Merlin opens his mouth and there’s nothing he can do but listen now.  
“It’s your book, Arthur,” he says with a small shrug.

“My book?”

“I wanted to show you, how much you mean to me, Arthur. I wanted to – well, I don’t, I just… I wanted you to see how long I’ve been waiting for you.”

He takes a step forward and Arthur wants to take a step back, because he can’t listen to this again, he can’t hear Merlin turn him down. Not even if it’s a better, rehearsed version with a bloody picture book to show him what a huge bloody mistake of his life he’s made.

“Shut up, Merlin – “ he manages before Merlin’s expression tightens.

“No, you have to listen to me. You hear but you never listen, Arthur, and I can’t do this again.”

There’s a little hitch to his voice then that’s stops Arthur short, but it could have been anything. The pleading glint in his eyes, the nervous way he’s gone back to biting his lip, the fact that this is Merlin and he can’t damn well ignore him any longer. That he can’t turn something away when there’s the slightest chance Merlin is here for him, that Gwaine is irrelevant and Arthur never has to let him leave this house alone.

“I’m listening.”

Merlin takes another step forward and then another until he’s right there, right in front of Arthur and he’s close enough to touch, close enough for Arthur to reach forward, slide his hand around the back of Merlin’s neck and pull him into a kiss that leaves them both breathless... if only he could.

He’s close enough to reach out and touch the book, the book open to a picture of Arthur standing with his hands braced on the glass balcony of Pendragon Towers, looking out over Camelot, drawing-Arthur’s hair sweeping out under the force of the wind.

“I tried so long to avoid this,” Merlin says, starting soft and only looking at the book.

“I tried so long to keep you out. But you’re a force of nature, Arthur. You’re strong and courageous and you care. You let so few people in, Arthur, but your heart is – it’s precious and wonderful and I was never going to be able to say no to you if you ever looked at me and said yes. But you never did.”

He stops then, to take a breath and collect himself and God, Arthur’s heart has never beaten so hard in his life; he can almost feel it trying to break through his ribs and escape, run away, because he can’t. He can’t be brave, not with this. Not this.

But Merlin keeps talking. He exhales and eyes Arthur warily and frowning softly and he keeps talking and Arthur has to listen.

“I fell for you so hard. Nothing I could do could make it stop. Nothing you could do would ever make it stop. It became a part of me and as much as I hated feeling so pathetic, this stupid all-consuming crush – I couldn’t stand the thought of not being a part of your life. And I was happy being a part of your life, even if you weren’t quite a part of mine. Always just out of reach.”

He sets the book down on the table; right there with Arthur’s keys and his handwritten address book because he needs a written copy just in case. He leaves it open, Arthur’s own face staring back at him and Merlin’s fingers linger as he looks at Arthur and all Arthur can feel is the lump in his throat.

“Then you kissed me,” Merlin says and Arthur wants to disappear, because he remembers, he remembers and it hurts.

“You kissed me and for a moment I had it all – and then we pulled apart and I saw the look in your eyes and I knew, I knew, I could never have it. I’d never have you. I never had a chance; I never had the right to ever wish I could. Then you had Gwen and I found Freya and she wasn’t you, she could never be you, but she was golden and made me happy, as happy as I could be. Then she was gone and you were there and I was drowning and you were trying to keep me afloat. I didn’t know if you were making it better or worse. All I knew was that nothing was holding me at all, so then I ran away. I ran away like I always have when it comes to you, Arthur, because if I don’t, then I’m just going to kiss you and I can’t keep running anymore.”

“Then don’t,” the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. Arthur looks down at Merlin’s hand still spread out over the drawing and he reaches out to cover Merlin’s hand with his own.

“Stop running, Merlin,” he says again, looking up into Merlin’s eyes, letting the bright blue drag him under.

“Arthur – “ Merlin whispers, barely a sound catching on his breath. Arthur steps forward and with his other hand he slides it around Merlin’s waist, relishing the warmth of him under his palm, the soft caress of his too-worn clothes. The smell of him, the heat of his entire body pressed up against his own.

“Stop running away from me, Merlin,” he whispers, closing his fingers over Merlin’s on the book and drawing them up to their chests, weaving their fingers together and finally, finally, leaning in to press his lips to Merlin’s. It’s nothing like their first kiss, nothing like the dozens that have plagued Arthur’s mind as he’s rewritten his own history into some torrid love affair where every missed chance he’s had has ended just the way this one is now. It’s nothing like the kisses he dreams about, nothing like the teasing nightmares where Merlin’s some fey siren who just lightly presses his lips to Arthur’s and then pulls away laughing, wrapped in Gwaine’s embrace.

This starts timid, just the warm give of Merlin’s lips on his own for a moment until Merlin gives back and nips at Arthur’s bottom lip, opening his mouth and letting Arthur’s tongue tangle with his own. Letting it grow, heated and too desperate to be any good, but the best kiss Arthur’s ever had because this is Merlin and dammit, the big-eared buffoon just seems to make his blood sing.

Merlin pulls away, but only far enough to rest his forehead against Arthur’s and close his eyes and Arthur just holds him. Just memorises the feel of Merlin’s palms on his collarbones, his teasing fingers brushing against his skin between the folds of his shirt and jacket. How soft his hair feels and how he tastes and smells and then Merlin’s opening his eyes and they’re hazy and so blue and dark with something that lurches inside of Arthur.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, his voice husky and timid and Arthur holds him a little tighter.

“Neither am I,” he says, and all he can think about then is standing alone in front of the reception desk at the Avalon all those years ago and wonder at his stupidity.  
How could it take him so long to realise what he’d just let walk away from him?

“We need to, to – “ Merlin mutters, stumbling a little like he’s lost the words and his fingers close around Arthur’s collar, like he’s holding on.

“The couch is in there,” Arthur murmurs back, still so close he could lean forward and capture him in a kiss again and they could stay, stay exactly where they are, standing just three steps inside Arthur’s door.

Merlin nods and looks at him for a moment before nodding again, like he’s talking himself into something and then he lets go and takes a small step back, like he’s urging Arthur to lead the way.

Which he does, but not before he takes Merlin by the hand.

He needs the contact, the feel of him, the knowledge he can make him stay.  
It’s possessive, but required. He _needs_ it.

And he has a strange feeling that Merlin might need it too.

Merlin brings the book and sets it down on the coffee table next to him as he perches on it just in front of where Arthur sits on the couch; close enough for their knees to weave together like puzzle pieces. He doesn’t say anything as Arthur leans forward and takes his hand and weaves their fingers together there as well, as if linking him will stop him standing up and leaving and Arthur will have to watch him go.

Neither of them says anything for the longest time and Arthur’s content for that moment in the quiet, in the feel of Merlin’s fingers in his and the pulsing beat as he curls his fingers around Merlin’s wrist.

“What made you change your mind?” he asks eventually, fearing the answer but needing it. Needing to know, like he needs the warmth of Merlin’s skin under his fingers right now. Like he needs this moment to last forever, just him and Merlin and this unspoken promise that this is now theirs and completely wordless.

“This,” Merlin says, softly, the hesitancy in his confession in the tense line of his shoulders as he breaks his touch with Arthur and reaches for the book, his hesitancy as much in his voice as his body language. He speaks like it’s a revelation.

“I haven’t drawn anything in here for months.”

He opens it to one of the last pages, an extra sheet of paper a little creased, the picture of Arthur leaning back in a chair, sun kissed and smiling, coffee in one hand, halfway to his mouth.

“I was angry at you and I left it here in Camelot, while Gwaine and I were away. I found it again, yesterday. I was cleaning up and I found it half under the bed and I picked it up and opened it.”

“Against your better judgement?” he asks, aiming to sound amused but he’s not sure if he manages it, feeling self conscious and too long in his limbs as he holds Merlin. Too aware of the feel of him now, so close and so far away. Instinctively he reaches out to brush his thumb across the sweep of Merlin’s cheekbone.

Merlin hums softly, like a chuckle and leans into his touch like he knows.

He probably does. It’s a strange feeling, but it’s always been like Merlin knows every part of him, every corner and hidden secret. Like they’ve known each other lifetime after lifetime and he knows exactly where to look, while Arthur still feels useless and entirely in the dark, wanting.

“Against my better judgement,” Merlin says, running his fingers down the spine of the book again. “I opened it and I realised I could keep adding to it every day for the rest of my life. I could pretend all I liked, but the evidence was sitting in the palm of my hands and I couldn’t let it go. I couldn’t close it. That’s when I knew.”

“And Gwaine?” Arthur asks, before he can stop himself, because he has to know.

Merlin huffs, once again like he knows Arthur’s insecurities, his need to be better, best. His lips curl into a minute smile.

“He found me there an hour later and just sat down and smiled.”

“How much did you tell him?”

“I didn’t need to tell him anything, he’s smarter than you give him credit for, Arthur. He’s so much more than you give him credit for.” Merlin sounds wistful and there’s regret there, there’s hurt and something pulls deep in Arthur, something vulnerable.

“Sorry,” he says before he can think and Merlin looks at him. He looks with wide blue eyes and his lips twitch.

“You’re not. But then, he’s not either,” Merlin says, resigned. “He knows everything, Arthur. I told him everything, I told him about you even before I let him in my pants, let alone my heart. He knew and he didn’t care. He took me for everything I could give and gave twice as much in return and I never deserved him. Not for a second. He just sat on the floor and picked up the book and gave it to me and said he was sorry.”

Arthur can’t speak after that; he just keeps rubbing this thumb in circles on Merlin’s hip and holding him close because right then he can’t let go. He just can’t.  
“I still love him, you know. That isn’t going to change for a long time. I can’t help that and I don’t want to. I will always love you, but right now, I love him more.”

“What do you need?” he croaks and Merlin softens, reaching out to hold Arthur’s hand still against his cheek and when he speaks, Arthur feels his courage leave him.

“I need you to give me time. I need time. I can’t just swap and let it all go,” Merlin whispers. “I’ve hurt him, Arthur. And I’ve hurt you and I’ve hurt myself. I need to figure that out. I need to forgive and forget.”

“Then I’ll be waiting when you do,” he says, waiting for the moment when Merlin’s going to get up and leave and he’s going to be bereft of this thing that’s swollen in his chest and he’s suddenly struck with the ache of how he’d managed to live without it before.

“Promise?” Merlin asks, quietly. Nervously. And suddenly he knows how real this is, how dangerous this is for Merlin as it is for him. How terrifying.

Arthur leans down to press the words against Merlin’s palm and in that moment he’s never meant a word more.  
“Promise.”

 

*

 

It’s not simple.

It’s horrifyingly, terrifyingly complex and he has no idea what to do with it all.

But neither does Merlin, and through Merlin he learns, neither does Gwaine.

No one wants to let go, but Arthur’s never been a sharing man and it’s clear in the lines around Merlin’s eyes and the curving frown on his lips that sharing is hurting him more than either of them.

But when it comes down to it, it’s Merlin that doesn’t want to let go the most.

Merlin spends the rest of the weekend at Arthur’s flat, but that first night, they don’t leave the couch. There’s more to relationships than mindless sex, but Arthur’s gay virginity weighs on him more and more as he thinks about it. Which is something he seemed to completely forget about when he was obsessing about Merlin prior.

But it’s a very real and sudden revelation when he has the man in his arms and all he wants to do is learn every part of him, every stretch of Merlin’s body that’s curled in his arms and every corner of his mind. Every shadow that Merlin’s hidden from him over the years while he loved and pined and watched as Arthur loved another, time and time again.  
He wants to know, but in those first few days, they just wait and cherish the moments that they have; the feel of each other and the warm press of lips and tongue as they kiss.  
They spend the first night on the couch and in the morning Merlin makes pancakes and Arthur burns toast. Merlin spends the morning wandering from room to room looking at all Arthur’s belongings in different places and ‘learning the new you’, he tells Arthur. Arthur spends the morning watching Merlin, learning his best friend in a new light, a light where he wants to tease the curling hair around the tips of Merlin’s ears, where Merlin’s jeans hang against his hips and he’s tall enough his t-shirt rides up when he leans against the doorways and it’s enough to drive Arthur _crazy_.

They don’t leave the house, that day, or the next. They burrow down and Arthur orders Chinese that first night and Merlin orders Thai the next and they don’t talk about anything important.

They can’t, Merlin says, and Arthur lets him, because that first weekend, he can see the guilt in Merlin’s eyes as Arthur touches him. He can see the anxiety and he can feel the marks Gwaine has left on Merlin. Invisible, but there, a presence, a claim that makes something burn in Arthur, something yearning to break the barrier.  
Because there is a barrier.

They spend Sunday in Arthur’s bed, reminiscing, talking about those first days when they were younger and their hearts hadn’t got any more tangled than the crush Arthur had on Gwen. When they were young and whole and simultaneously terrified and unafraid.

At 9:07pm, Merlin kisses the corner of Arthur’s mouth and goes back to Gwaine.

Arthur misses him immediately.

He spends an hour trying to sort his thoughts into sentences before he can’t take the mess anymore and runs to Morgana.

He doesn’t care that it’s running to his big sister for help, he needs it; he needs it more than he’s probably ever needed it and it must be all over his face because when Leon opens the door, he takes one look at him and throws the door wide.

“I’ll go get her,” he says and Arthur just nods. In that moment, he wants to thank Leon for everything he’s ever done, because damn, he’s known him forever and it’s even more scary to know the other man knows him so well.

Morgana is dressed in a black silk nightie and is finishing wrapping a dressing gown around her that’s pink and fluffy and has a hood and Arthur cracks a smile as she waddles into the living room and looks at him.

That same thing must be still on his face because her expression softens.

“I think I’ve done something,” he tells her.

He can still feel the press of Merlin’s lips on the corner of his mouth.

“What did you do?”

“I made him fall in love with me,” he says, and in that moment he hates himself for every word.

 

*


	12. Part Twelve

*

 

** Part Twelve **

*****

**_The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we  
are loved; loved for ourselves, or rather, in spite of ourselves. _  
Victor Hugo**

*

 

Arthur spends the rest of that night sleeping uncomfortably on Morgana and Leon’s couch, which is, in part, his fault, because he damn well helped them set up the nursery. He wakes up with a crick in his neck to the smell of coffee and something with onions to find Leon in the kitchen wearing a comedy apron and looking at least three times less dishevelled than Arthur feels.

“What on earth is that?” he asks before he can be bothered taking any more stock of the situation than that and turn on his just-awake filter that is supposed to exist between his brain and his mouth. Leon chuckles and Arthur feels nothing but a deep-seated sense of regret for ever being friends with the man for so long at Leon’s blatant lack of sympathy.  
“Morgana decided she wanted a fried onion omelette for breakfast.”

“Riiiight.”

“This is apparently a healthier compromise against the burger she’s actually craving.”

“Jesus Christ, just get her a piece of bread or two.”

“It’s not allowed after last time,” Leon replies somewhat more amiably than a man who has impregnated Morgana Pendragon should be about his situation.  
“We don’t have any bread in the house.”

“There is something wrong with you,” Arthur says slumping onto a chair on the other side of the bench. Almost immediately Leon pours Arthur a cup of coffee and sets it in front of him.

“Something,” he concedes, trying to ignore Leon’s smug expression. “But not everything.”

“As long as there are parts of me worth saving.”

Arthur just grunts and inhales his coffee more than drinks it. Leon just hums a little and pushes the eggs around the frypan with the spatula. His omelette looks more like scrambled eggs with onions than anything omelette-y, which Arthur finds sort of soothing and amusing, because clearly Leon is no better at cooking than he had been at university. It had always been Owaine who had been in charge of their post-booze fry-ups. Arthur always bought everything, but Owaine had been the only one out of the four of them capable of cooking anything to a state that wasn’t burnt.

After a moment Leon takes the frypan off the stove and starts sliding the mess of eggs and onion onto a plate.

“So, you and Merlin, huh?” he asks then and Arthur’s growing good mood plummets, because dammit, he doesn’t really want to talk about it. He didn’t want to talk about it last night, but he wanted to talk about it more then than he does now. Which is why he damn well came here. Now, in the wake of Leon’s question, he doesn’t have an answer… to anything, really.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone,” Arthur says, sourly and Leon looks at him expectantly, like he is waiting for Arthur to figure something out.

“Who am I going to tell? You told Morgana, and I guess that Gwaine already knows something - the only person I can imagine who doesn’t know right now who we all see is Percy. Who I guess, Gwaine would tell. If you were looking to wallow like an arrogant git, Arthur, you’ve gone about it the wrong way, you know.”

And Arthur can’t argue with that, no matter how much he wishes he _could_. Because Leon is right: everyone knows. Or will know.

The only person who doesn’t would be Gwen, and Arthur hasn’t seen her since he gave her back her ring. She’d walked out the front door and essentially, out of his life.  
“Shut up,” Arthur settles on saying, but Leon still looks smug and Arthur hates him as he watches his oldest friend march a plate piled with eggs and onion into the other room for Arthur’s pregnant sister.

Somewhat disappointed in the lack of sympathy on Leon and Morgana’s part, he leaves their apartment sometime after ten and goes into the office. The top floor is dead and Arthur relishes the quiet as he settles into working. The ease of paperwork and numbers soothes him and keeps his brain busy in a way he relishes, because the only other option is thinking about what’s happened in the last two days, thinking about Merlin, about the feel of his skin and how it felt to have Merlin kiss the underside of his chin, press his lips down Arthur’s nose, his cheeks, his lips and eyelids and... He loses himself in the calm repetition of his work because otherwise there is nothing but Merlin and it just serves him up with a melee of emotions he can’t quite place or source. Just thinking about Merlin leaves him anxious and his heart fluttering in his chest, it leaves him guilty and exited, terrified and angry, lost, confused, jealous, delighted – the list goes on and it’s too much to think about. Too much when Merlin’s not even here.

Which is really why he’s not surprised when there’s a gentle _rat tat tat_ on his door and when he jerks back into reality and looks up, he finds himself staring at Merlin. Merlin, dressed in those worn, black jeans he favours and a grey cardigan bunched up to his elbows, his satchel bouncing on one hip. He’s got two day old stubble on his jaw and paint on his hands and this cautious, amused smile on his face.

“I figured you’d be here,” he says and Arthur tries not to blush.

“I have work to do, Merlin,” he replies and Merlin laughs.

“You’re so very important, aren’t you Arthur.”

“You know, I’m not entirely sure you understand just how important my job is here,” Arthur replies and this time Merlin just smiles, but it’s that teasing smile that makes Arthur’s stomach do summersaults.

“If it’s so important, then why does Helen get by very easily without you, then?” Merlin teases and Arthur rocks in his chair.

“Because she’s just as brilliant as I am.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that, she’ll box you round the ears.”

“Unlike _some people_ , Merlin, Helen respects me.”

That makes Merlin laugh and _there_ is that familiar fondness, Arthur thinks blithely, as Merlin walks idly closer.

“What are you hiding from?” Merlin asks, coming to a stop on the other side of Arthur’s desk. He rises up onto his toes and sits on the corner of the dark mahogany.

“I’m not hiding, Merlin.”

“You forget how much I know you,” Merlin chides and that settles something sharp and alien inside Arthur, because Merlin does. He’s always known Arthur better than Arthur’s known himself, and looking at his best friend now, Arthur feels like he barely knows Merlin at all.

Merlin’s expression softens then, and he stands up.

“Come with me,” he says, demanding, his eyes sparkling.

“I have work to do,” Arthur says, just for the indignant look that Merlin gets a moment later.

“No you don’t, come on. Up!” Arthur chuckles and stands up and lets Merlin take his hand. Merlin’s hand is warm and the skin rough from too much acrylic and he doesn’t let go until they’re on the street. Their pace slows after that, ambling to a stroll, getting in the way of everyone else rushing about. All the time Merlin’s grip doesn’t falter. It’s not tight, nor is it loose; if Arthur was prone to sentimentality he could almost say that their hands fit, slotting together perfectly. Not that he will. He tucks the information away along with the pleasant feeling of Merlin’s arm brushing his own, the little glances he keeps throwing Arthur as he drags him around another group of people and then, finally, down a little alleyway that breaks them out on the other side of the park. There are significantly less people to get in their way and their stride slows again until finally Merlin pulls to a halt under a giant sprawling tree.

“Do you remember the last time we were here?” he asks and Arthur immediately draws a blank. It must show all over his face because Merlin just laughs.

“Don’t worry. I don’t either. I haven’t been here since Gwaine and I left, at least. We used to walk along the other side a bit, building up the strength in my legs.”

“Right.”

Merlin turns to look at him then, properly faces him, his eyes wide and focussed.

“You know what else I remember about this park?” he asks.

Arthur shakes his head, because for him, Ascetir is always going to be Merlin’s crash. Always.

“I remember you and me slumping under trees like dead bumblebees, ignoring our essays. I remember running across Grenning field in the middle of the night after Freya’s show. I remember getting drunk and you and Leon tossing me into the bloody lake. This place – this city, keeps hold of so many things, you know? It has so many things tied down in so many places that there’s nothing really you can do to avoid it all.”

“Do you have a point in that?” he asks, uncomfortable. Merlin chuffs and squeezes his hold on Arthur’s hand.

“Somewhere,” he laughs, before sobering. “My point is – “

“Oh, so there is a point.”

“Shut up. My point is; things have changed. We’re different, but that doesn’t mean everything is different. Wait, that didn’t come out right.”

Arthur can’t help it, he laughs and Merlin blushes and he hits him.

“My point is, you ass, that we can’t run from everything that’s happened. It’s hard. Right now, this… it’s hard. But that doesn’t mean it’s not good. Everything that’s happened before doesn’t make this better or worse or… I loved Freya. We had sex under one of the trees over there and almost got caught. And you, you loved Gwen and I know for a fact that you told me you wanted to run away and start a farm under that tree near the bench. I laughed so much I nearly choked on my beer. This place has so many memories, Arthur, and it always will. But that doesn’t mean we can’t make new ones. That doesn’t mean I don’t _want_ to make new ones. With you.”

“Merlin,” he says, or tries to say but Merlin cuts him off at the quick.

“We’ve changed, life has changed, but _us_. You and me? The way we are, the way we’ve always been. That doesn’t have to be different, Arthur. I know you, and you know me, and that’s… that’s why I love you. Why this can work.” Merlin says, softly, like it’s not supposed to be serious. Arthur sighs and fidgets, because that’s just it. It should be. It should be different, because it _is_. Their whole relationship is different. It’s not quite a relationship; it’s not quite friendship, not anymore. Arthur knows how Merlin tastes, how he blinks awake in the morning, how his fingertips flutter like butterfly kisses in low light as he maps Arthur’s features. He knows how his heart beats under Arthur’s palm and how much Arthur’s hurt him by falling in love with him back. It’s so different to what they had before. Before he knew how Merlin took his tea, how he loved hot chocolate but couldn’t stand coffee. How he hated standing in line and loved crap television. He knows how Merlin feels asleep on his shoulder and drunk in his lap, how Merlin smiles and shouts and argues. He knows so much about Merlin and yet he doesn’t know him at all. Not every corner of him the way he yearns to.

“What about Gwaine?” he asks, blurts out before he can stop himself. Merlin’s expression flickers with guilt; he looks down at his shoes, scuffing them against the grass.

“What about him?”

“You still love him?”

Merlin looks pained.

“I told you it’s going to take time,” he says, his voice soft. Arthur nods in reply, not quite trusting his own voice.

“Arthur,” he says, his eyes wide and his voice level, but his expression betraying him.

“He’s staying with Percy,” Merlin says, then, not quite the heavy words Arthur was hoping for. All the same, it’s not something he can condemn. The fact that another man no longer shares Merlin’s bed.

“But I won’t say goodbye to him.” There’s a fierceness to his voice now that Arthur doesn’t miss and he silently swears to himself that he’ll take heed, because there’s no question in Merlin’s gaze. And Arthur can’t ask anything else of him. He curls his fingers up tight around Merlin’s.

“I won’t ask it of you,” he says, his voice sounding grave to his own ears. Merlin just nods, biting his lip and looking down at their cupped hands.

“You must trust me, Arthur.”

“I do,” the words come unbidden and Merlin huffs. His fingers tighten around Arthurs and he squeezes for a moment.

“Trust me. No matter what. I love you. Truly, I do. I’ll do my best not to hurt you, but I wont let him go. He loves me, and he has yet to treat me any differently than he did. But know this, Arthur Pendragon,” Merlin’s grip on his hands tighten again and this time he draws them to Arthur’s chest, to right above his heart.

“Know it in here, that you are my choice. That I am yours, just as I’ve always been. Whether you knew it or not.”

His expression is so earnest that Arthur could never believe his words as other than the utmost truth.

“You’re such an idiot, Merlin,” he mutters, laughing quietly to himself as he pulls Merlin forward, pulling his body in close and pressing his lips to Merlin’s. Sealing the Idiot’s oath with a kiss.

“I know,” Merlin says, as they break apart. He slides his fingers up into Arthur’s hair and the gesture sends shivers down Arthur’s spine. Merlin’s lips are bruised and red, slick with saliva, his eyes are glassy and framed with long dirty lashes. He’s beautiful and Arthur drinks him in, trying to memorise this moment as Merlin just looks into his eyes, searching for something, his lips bending into a frown for a moment before he catches something – Arthur watches the moment Merlin finds it, feeling curiously vulnerable for only a fleeting second before Merlin’s lips curl into a tiny smile. Merlin laughs, a short breathy chuckle before he kisses Arthur again, fleeting and light.

“I want you to do something for me,” Merlin says and pulls away, out of Arthur’s grasp. The air is immediately cold without him.

“What?”

Merlin’s expression is wry, then, softly amused. He twists to reach into his bag and when he turns back he’s holding the book. The book that he gave Arthur that he hasn’t had the heart to look through properly. And Merlin knows it. It’s written all over his face.

“I want you to look at this,” he says and holds the book out to Arthur. They’re still standing so close that there’s barely even room for the thing between them, but it’s there – another barrier.

“Why?”

“So maybe you’ll understand,” Merlin says, it’s almost sad, really. Not _sad_ , sad. But… wistful. Happy sad. Missing people at Christmas sad. It’s baffling; he can’t quite get his head around it properly before Merlin’s pressing the damn book into his grasp and letting the weight settle there.

“Look at it, and we’ll go from there,” Merlin nods, letting the damn thing go and then backing away.

“Is that it?” Arthur calls after him. He watches the way the light plays over Merlin’s hair, casting shadows across his cheekbones, down his neck and his shoulders, hunched around the now bookless bag.

Merlin shrugs as he continues to walk away, a playful smile on his face this time and Arthur laughs, feeling it bubble up from his belly and burst out of him. It’s exhilarating, in that moment.

 

*

 

Out of everything Merlin can do, giving his inanimate objects valid, intimidating arguments is not something Arthur really contemplated, until he finds himself sitting at his kitchen table staring at the damn drawing book and listening to all the reasons why he shouldn’t open it.

Logically, he reminds himself, it’s his brain constructing the arguments against opening it, not the book. Not that that means anything.

In the end he winds up thinking about the last little look Merlin threw him over his shoulder earlier that day down by the park, and that’s all it takes to throw the damn thing open. The first page. It’s not hard, except that it totally is, because it’s just a picture of him, but it’s a picture of him from six years ago. He casts his thoughts back and flounders, not quite sure of it all, and then he turns a page and it’s him again, curled around something on the couch, brows furrowed. He turns again and this time it’s a sheet from another book, a draft of that same picture he drew for Arthur all those years ago, of him and his mother, the drawing that’s on the wall just in the hallway. And there scratched in Merlin’s chicken scrawl handwriting are the words, curling around his mother’s half sketched arm – _she’d be so proud of him._

Something flutters in Arthur’s chest and for a moment he almost laughs, petrified. He runs his fingers over the words and turns the page before he gets stuck. The drawings aren’t quite so detailed, they turn into rough sketches, playing with shadows and light, Merlin learning his face and his body and it’s intimate in a way that’s unsettling, that Merlin knows so much of him. He finds more words, hesitant, terrifying words. Scratches of sentences and thoughts – _arrogant twat –– he caught us – why is this so hard? – those stupid fingers – teeth – he tries too hard – it’s always vodka – eugh, blond hair - he wouldn’t look at me today – lemon lime and bitters – football, it’s always football – TARDIS blue – he’s such a clotpole. Oh god I’m making up words – arse arse arse arse arse – JOGGING SHORTS. DEAR ARTHUR, IM BURNING ALL YOUR JOGGING SHORTS_ – the words go on and on, curling snippets along napkins and snatches of shoulders and neck; wrinkled shirts and notebook paper, torn scraps and curling fingers illustrated beside rows of swearwords and startling silence. The years pass under Merlin’s eye and his words and his vulnerabilities. There’s a detailed sketch on a full page almost two thirds through, between dates and images of the group, of Arthur with Freya and Morgana and Elena and Lance – but Freya, it’s Freya that hurts him and this intricate image that’s from memory – there’s enough there for Arthur to know, to know Merlin’s curled out his rough edges, buffed him up to shine where he really shouldn’t. _I wish I could stop,_ the words say.

The book stays open on that page far longer than any other. He’s not sure how far in time the sketches pass after that, when he finally finds the courage to turn to the next page. He knows afterwards, though, that in this drawing, Freya is gone, the drawings are dark, now, in charcoal and heavy black pencil, from memory and often half scribbled out, and then they fade back to thin lines and Arthur laughs at the caricature of himself mainlining coffee and huge cupcakes, clearly drawn while Merlin was talking to him on the phone while he was in Ealdor and Arthur was missing him.

There are no words, after that. The drawings thin out as well, Merlin trying to let go, and then there’s a photograph instead of a drawing, slipped in between the last folds and it’s of Gwen and him, one of their wedding photos. They look happy; _he_ looks happy. He can remember the way his cheeks ached from smiling, how alien the ring had felt on his finger and by memory he thumbs the empty space now, as he had when he’d first started wearing it. He remembers the way Gwen’s hand had felt in his, how small her hands had always been, her delicate fingers. He remembers and it doesn’t hurt.

 _I can’t do this anymore. For them. For this_, Merlin writes on the back and after that, there’s nothing. The pages are blank. There are half a dozen or so, from the actual book itself, left to fill, despite the fact that the book is bursting at the seams. But he knows what these empty pages mean: Gwaine. This is where Merlin let go. He let go, for Arthur and Gwen and in the hurt, he found Gwaine, and Gwaine loved him.  
And Arthur had stolen him away from that.

Guilt flares in his chest in that moment, hot and heavy and he wants to slam the book shut and pretend he hasn’t spent all night going back through everything Merlin has given to him and he’s failed to notice.

But instead of yielding to it, he chooses to refrain.

It’s not a hard decision, it’s done in the time it takes him to cross the room and put on his shoes. He checks for his keys and his wallet and shuts the door behind him. It’s a longer drive to Merlin’s from his new house than the old, but the roads are quiet and it doesn’t take long. The whole way he taps his fingers against the steering wheel. He takes his time parking the car out the front and then making sure it’s locked. There’s still an empty space where Merlin’s little Citroen had once been, out the front. He takes the stairs two at a time and by the time he reaches the top his calm has ended. He closes his fist and knocks on the door, listening to the thud as he continues to knock and knock and knock and then the door is open and Merlin’s standing there.

“Arthur,” he says, sounding pleased and surprised. He’s wearing sleep worn pyjama bottoms and a white shirt splattered with paint over an equally spotted tank top, there’s paint on his hands and on his cheek and he’s a beautiful sight.

So Arthur kisses him, he kisses him hello and he kisses him goodbye because he didn’t get a chance earlier that day. He kisses him because he can, desperate and wanting. He tastes like hot chocolate and it only takes a beat before Merlin kisses back, nipping with his teeth against Arthur’s bottom lip, wetting his tongue against it, licking into Arthur’s mouth. He’s warm as Arthur grapples to hold him, to touch him.

When at last they break apart they’re both gasping and part only enough for air. Forehead to forehead Arthur looks at him, searching the glazed blue eyes he can barely see in focus as he runs his fingers over the skin on Merlin’s neck, down his jaw, feeling the quick beat of his pulse.

“Fuck,” Merlin breathes, and then he lets out a gasping laugh. Arthur smiles. Merlin’s skin is hot under his touch, he can feel the pressing bulge of Merlin’s cock against his thigh, feel the curling heat in his own groin, his cock hard in his trousers.

He leans in again and kisses Merlin again, not as heady and desperate as before, but yearning, every part of him yearning for more.

“Arthur,” Merlin sighs, his fingers ghosting against Arthur’s neck, his chest.

“I want you,” he says, pressing the words against Merlins mouth, pushing forward against Merlin’s responding moan.

“I want you,” he says again. “I want all of you.”

“Arthur, fuck.”

Merlin’s hips buck forward and Merlin groans again, gasping against Arthur’s lips. His hands curl under Merlin’s top, searching for skin to touch, to pull against him. He feels Merlin’s muscles writhe under his fingers, as Merlin grapples against him. It’s rough again, then, as Arthur pulls Merlin’s body forwards, against him, kissing rough and desperate again, while forcing him backwards, into the flat. Merlin guides him, stepping back until they’re far enough to slam the door, never moving far enough away from each other to break the contact from chest to groin. As the room echoes with the sound of the door slamming, Merlin forces Arthur back, the strength in his long, wiry body pushing him up against the door. This time it’s Arthur’s turn to moan, his hips jutting up into Merlin’s as Merlin presses up against him, grinding his erection against Arthur’s thigh.  
He kisses Arthur long and hard, his tongue sliding with Arthur’s, his hands grappling with Arthur’s shirt, seeking skin of his own.

“Merlin,” Arthur mutters, his name on his lips like a prayer. “Merlin, Merlin – “ he says, reaching for Merlin’s waist. He slides his hands under Merlin’s shirt and thumbs the elasticised waist of Merlin’s trousers, the overlapping top of his pants as they curl around the top of Merlin’s arse. Merlin moans as he curls his thumb over the soft flesh and the curve of his crack. In turn Merlin grapples with Arthur’s belt, his fingers fumbling with the zip, the rough press of his nimble fingers against Arthur’s crotch makes his cock twitch and him groan in frustration.

“Please, Merlin, please – “ he mutters, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against the wood as Merlin finally works the zip down and presses his palm against his cock.  
“I’ll make you feel good, I promise,” Merlin promises, kissing the words against Arthur’s jaw, down his neck as he slides his hand into Arthur’s pants and curls his fingers around Arthur’s dick. He strokes, the pressure just the right kind of tight around the shaft. He lets go then, using both hands to peel Arthur’s jeans away from his hips, exposing him properly. Arthur watches as Merlin drops to his knees and peers up at him through his lashes, eyes dark and his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Can I?” he asks, voice husky and Arthur groans, sliding his hands into Merlin’s hair.

“Yes, fuck, yes.”

He’s had blowjobs before, half the girls he’s dated weren’t half bad at them, but Merlin is something else. Arthur groans, low in his throat, as Merlin takes him into his mouth. The warm wet heat is familiar and wonderful, but with a cock of his own, Merlin knows – he takes him in, almost to the base before pulling back, his tongue swirling over the head and Arthur’s eyes nearly roll back in his skull. Merlin’s fingers toy with his balls, his mouth slick and wet as he sucks, licking the tip and up the shaft, a warm pressure as Arthur bucks into it, taking him deeper. It’s no fucking time at all before Arthur feels the hot tension in his groin as his orgasm builds.

“Merlin, I’m – I’m going to – “ he pants and when he looks down Merlin’s got this glint in his eyes that sends him over the edge. His body tenses and Merlin’s cheeks hollow as he swallows, letting Arthur’s dick slide out of his mouth as Arthur slumps back against the wall.

“Fuck,” he breathes and Merlin just laughs, giddy and bright.

“Fucking hell,” he says again. Merlin’s eyes are vivid and his smile wicked. He looks pleased with himself and happy, despite the fact that his pyjamas are bulging at the crotch where he’s kneeling on the floor in front of Arthur.

“We should go to bed,” he says and it’s Arthur’s turn to laugh then.

“That’s the best idea you’ve ever had,” he says, just to hear Merlin laugh again.

Merlin rocks to his feet and Arthur pushes himself off the wall before reaching out to take Merlin by the hand.

“I want to do that for you,” he whispers, pleased with the way Merlin shudders, a small gasp escaping as he leans into Arthur, his skin hot against his neck.

“I want to feel you come, I want to. I want to suck you and make you beg for it.” And he does, he wants to feel Merlin’s skin under his fingers, hot and flushed, hear him moan and gasp. He wants everything and after that first rush of confidence he suddenly feels exposed and terrified. But he wants it. He does.

“Oh fuck,” Merlin says, his voice heady and Arthur just smiles and leans in to kiss him again. Tasting his mouth and pushing him back towards the stairs. Merlin’s apartment is horribly designed. He doesn’t want to think how many times he must have settled for fucking on the couch considering the narrow staircase that sets his bed and bathroom on a secondary indoor balcony. They nearly trip half a dozen times as they fumble up the stairs and by then Arthur’s blood is pounding again, the thrill of desire running through his entire body.

They stop halfway to the bed, kissing like they’re teenagers, like it’s the only thing worth doing. It has them both panting, both reaching for skin, holding each other close.  
“Fuck, Arthur, fuck,” Merlin keeps whispering as he pulls away, breathing hard, his eyes closed, eyelashes flush against his cheeks.

“Fuck.”

Arthur guides him back then, pushing him back until he hits the bed and falls backwards. Arthur kneels then, between Merlin’s thighs and lets Merlin draw him in for another kiss. He draws back, staring at him like he’s searching for something.

“You don’t have to, now. If you’re not – “ he starts to say but Arthur silences him with his lips.

“I want you,” he says instead and presses his hand against the bulge in Merlin’s pyjamas, curling his hand around the shaft through the fabric. Merlin gasps then and a thrill runs down Arthur spine.

He lets go, then, leaning up to press his chest against Merlin’s and push him back until he falls back against the mattress. Straddling him he braces himself against him.  
“I want you,” he says again, sliding his other hand to the waistband of Merlin’s pyjamas to take his cock in hand. He strokes it slowly, letting his thumb slide over the tip. He watches, entranced by the way Merlin’s expression changes, how wanton he looks with his lips wet as he moans, eyelashes flickering. Merlin reaches up to grip Arthur’s thighs, his body moving into each of Arthur’s movements.

“Oh Christ, Arthur, please, please –“ Merlin moans and Arthur leans down to press his lips against Merlin’s nipples, swirling his tongue over it. Merlin gasps and curls his fingers tight in Arthur’s hair.

He presses kisses against Merlin’s flesh as he slides down his body. Trailing his tongue against the lines of Merlin’s abdomen, over his navel and down, sliding his thumbs over the edge of Merlin’s pyjama’s and drawing them down until Merlin’s dick, hot and full and hard, curls against his hip.

“Arthur,” Merlin sighs, his voice thick and that sound is all Arthur needs. He kisses the base of Merlin’s dick and then slides his tongue up the length. Merlin tenses, his muscles moving under Arthur’s hands as Arthur takes him in, letting the weight of his prick loll on his tongue for a moment. He has no idea what he’s doing, but he’s driven by the sounds Merlin makes as he sucks, letting the buck of Merlin’s hips guide him. It doesn’t take long before Merlin tenses again, pulling at Arthur’s hair.

“I want to see you, I – “ Merlin mutters, pulling him upwards and kissing him, hard. He’s panting into the kiss, sweat slick and Arthur’s determined to follow through, make Merlin come. He wants to, more than anything. Wants to feel him. Still pressed tight against Merlin he takes Merlin’s cock in hand and strokes, long and slow, and watches the way Merlin reacts, how his breathing hitches and his kisses become hot and needy.

“Arthur, I’m, Arthur, Arthur – “ he whispers, pressing the words against Arthur’s lips, against his jaw and then the words stutter as Merlin comes across his own stomach. He slumps then, sprawling against the bed but still anchoring one hand against Arthur’s skin, his fingers trailing over Arthur’s collarbones. He slides over Merlin, then, sprawling next to him and something warm unfurls in his chest as Merlin leans over to his bedside cabinet for tissues and cleans himself up. Tossing them aside he immediately scoots closer, until he’s pressed tight against Arthur, from shoulder to hip and smiling, limbs tangling with Arthur’s.

“You’re such a girl,” he chuckles and Merlin huffs, his breath hot against Arthur’s chest.

“You’re a prat,” Merlin says and Arthur laughs again, louder this time, suddenly a little bit hysterical. It feels absurd, oddly fantastical, like it’s not real. Neither of them speak for a while after that. Merlin curls his arms around Arthur and Arthur holds him back, letting the warmth of his skin settle deep into his bones, lodging it to memory. The slow draw of Merlin’s breath soothes him but he knows Merlin’s not asleep. His fingers trace patterns against Arthur’s flesh and sends goose bumps all over his skin.

“We should go on a date,” he says, finally, feeling suddenly foolish and pressing his lips against Merlin’s hair.

“A what?” Merlin hums, sounding amused.

“A date,” Arthur repeats and this time Merlin reacts. He breathes in and twists, forcing Arthur to prop himself up a little so he can look him in the eye, looking perplexed and slightly fond.

“A proper one. Pizza and a movie. A fancy restaurant. The park. You know, date. I want to take you out.”

Merlin grins and falls back flat against the mattress.

“You don’t have to woo me, Arthur,” he smiles.

“I know.”

“I’m not a girl, you know,” Merlin says, amused.

“Oh, I know,” Arthur replies and Merlin laughs again, sounding pleased.

“But I want to. I want to hold your hand and tell awkward stories and learn everything about you that I don’t know and relearn everything I do.”

“Who’s the girl now?” Merlin teases and Arthur blushes, feeling it colour his cheeks and he hides his face in the curling sheet and Merlin’s bare skin.  
“I don’t need to be courted.”

“I know,” he whispers. He pulls away and cranes to look at Merlin’s soft expression.

“I want to. I want to take you out the way you deserve.”

“Okay,” Merlin says, after a minute of relaxed quiet between them. He flops back against his pillows and goes back to playing with Arthur’s hair.  
“You can pick me up after work tomorrow. Seven o’clock.”

“Seven,” Arthur concedes and pretends that he can’t see the pleased little crinkles around Merlin’s eyes and that Merlin can’t see the way he can’t stop smiling.

 

*

He spends the day in an infinite state of restless anxiety. Helen wears this look on her face that makes him think she knows more than she ever lets on, but that certainly doesn’t stop her from being irritated with him. George remains locked in his perpetual state of gormless lackey and is completely unhelpful in keeping Arthur’s wandering mind on track. He spends the day trying not to think about Merlin, which doesn’t work in the slightest. There’s a whispering black hole of thoughts and desires and feelings sitting firmly in his chest, wisps of smoke coalescing with his blood and working their way through him, nagging at him to give in, to stick his whole body through the gap in his chest and just _damn well call him_. Except he doesn’t, because he has his pride and because he really doesn’t want to hear Merlin laugh at him. (Except he sort of does.)

Mostly he spends his time trying to figure out what the hell he was going to do with Merlin later on. It felt precious and silly last night, curled around him. Merlin’s skin hot against Arthur’s own, his eyes so god-damn blue and his smile impish and intoxicating. It felt precious and silly and oh so important to say it. Ask him. Hold his hand and show the world, show Merlin, show himself - that this is what he wanted. That now he had figured it out he wasn’t stopping, wasn’t going to hide or hesitate any longer. He wanted to know it, deep in himself. He wanted Merlin to know it too.

But Merlin doesn’t like fancy restaurants. He doesn’t like anything that he can’t get away with jeans and those ridiculous cardigans he favours nearly all year round. He likes Thai over Chinese, because not everyone can be perfect. He loves shitty television and you can basically buy his soul if you ever bought him a gift voucher for the closest art store to his flat. It doesn’t matter if it’s birthdays, Christmas or just because; nearly any debt could be settled with a good set of sable brushes and stretched canvas.  
Arthur found himself pushing back the immediate desire to take him out anywhere he could; the most exclusive place in Camelot would kick someone out halfway through their meal if he showed up and demanded a table. But that wasn’t Merlin. It had never been Merlin and the idiot’s words at the park came back to him. That they knew each other, there shouldn’t be any first date jitters because they knew each other already.

All he had to do was think about what made Merlin happy and he’d be fine.

Except fine never constituted ‘actually on top of things’, which invariably gets him stuck in traffic for an hour and ruins the Thai takeout he’d ordered.

In the end he’s over half an hour late, the bloody food is cold and the bouquet of horse-hair paintbrushes tied up with ribbon seems invariably stupid.

He nearly takes out the neighbour’s hedge when he swerves to pull up into Merlin’s parking spot and he’s swearing when he gets out of the car.

“I’m late,” he huffs, still clutching the open door of his car. He can feel the way his hair is sticking up from where he’s been running his hands through it in frustration and his clothes smell like Thai food. Meanwhile, Merlin’s freshly showered and looking good enough to eat and he’s clearly trying not to laugh as he walks towards Arthur across the lawn.  
“You are,” Merlin smirks and Arthur to scowl but Merlin just isn’t helping. Being attractive and all.

“You smell different than I was expecting,” Merlin says, still fighting against his grin.

“I was waylaid.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. The food’s ruined too.”

“Really?”

“It’s nothing special, just Thai, but there’s no point eating it now.”

Merlin mock frowns at him.

“You brought Thai takeaway to our date?”

“And this,” Arthur says, remembering the bouquet he had the shop girl fashion up much to her glee and amusement. He turns back to the car and fishes it from the floor in front of the passenger seat.

Merlin’s expression blossoms when Arthur turns around and awkwardly offers it to him. His eyes bulge and he looks absolutely ridiculous for a moment before he _smiles_. He absolutely _beams_ and jumps forward to take them from Arthur.

“That’s – this is. Bloody hell, who did you pay to make this?” he laughs, giddy and wild and practically throws himself at Arthur. Arthur laughs and wraps his arms around his waist to brace him and doesn’t bother trying to get a word in as Merlin smothers him against his neck and then twists to snog him senseless, waving the paint-brush bouquet around like a royal standard.

He can feel Merlin smiling into their kiss and he congratulates himself for a job well done right then and there, because this is what he lives for – that bloody smile, that giddy laughter. This bloody idiot with his eyes and his cheekbones and his hair and the way, right from the beginning, he made Arthur see art in more than just vapid museums.

“I take it you like that?” he quips and laughs, unable to stop himself, when Merlin hits him.

“I suppose,” Merlin agrees happily.

“Good. Cause the second part is sort of ruined. As I was trying to say before you assaulted me.”

“Well if you don’t like it I won’t do it again,” Merlin says, even though Arthur’s still holding him up. Even though he’s still got his arms around Arthur’s neck and he’s still _smiling_.

“I think we can come to an agreement.”  
“Oh?”

 

“I had plans for the Thai, but we can heat that up later. Can you wait another hour or so?” he asks and enjoys the way Merlin considers it, how his expression changes, how he bites his lip and furrows his brows and never stops brushing his thumb against the back of Arthur’s neck.

“I guess I can deal with that,” he acquiesces.

So Arthur lets him down and takes Merlin’s paintbrush bouquet off him, kissing away the petulant frown and puts it back in the car.

“Later,” he says, and kisses him again.

At that Merlin’s smile broadens.

“Come with me,” Arthur says and takes Merlin by the hand. He makes them walk, slow and casual just as they were when Merlin took them there. It’s a longer journey this time, he makes sure of it. He makes them stop, pointing out the little oddities along the way: the pair of ancient, washed out garden gnomes sitting forgotten under a garden hedge, the two different colours of paint the people three houses down had used on their shutters either side of the house. And they talk. Just talk. Arthur embraces the feel of Merlin’s fingers in his, his soft presence, how his shoulder brushes with Arthur’s own. He memorises the nervous flicker of Merlin’s eyes as he glances at Arthur every now and again. It’s the most enlightening thing. He’s painfully real in front of him, the freckles on his neck, the scar just above his eyebrow. His hands are rough and every now and again there’s a stiffness to his posture, like he’s not quite sure this is happening. There are hesitancies written all over his skin in invisible ink and Arthur yearns to discover them.

It doesn’t matter the moment Merlin knows exactly where Arthur is taking him, Merlin doesn’t mention it out loud and neither does Arthur, but the closer they get to the park the faster Merlin’s pace picks up. His flickers of eye contact speed up until he’s starting to bite his lip as well. There’s something curious and wicked in Merlin’s eyes and Arthur can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips. They turn the corner and with the park in eye line Merlin tugs his hold free and takes off. Running up the path towards the sprawling spans of trees that line the edge of the park.

With a shout Arthur takes off after him. Merlin’s legs are longer but his stamina isn’t what it used to be, so Arthur catches up quickly. Not that it stops Merlin. He dodges clear of Arthur’s grasp and turns in another direction, laughing all the while. The sound echoes in the streetlights and shadows.

“ _Mer_ lin!” Arthur shouts without thinking and Merlin’s laughter is short and sharp and sweet and it tickles something free that’s been lodged in Arthur’s chest.  
It’s dark enough that he can’t quite see all of Merlin’s features; he’s a darker shadow against the sheen of nightfall. His laughter echoes between the trees as Arthur takes chase again, letting and not-quite letting him escape just at the final moment, Merlin dancing out of his grasp.

He nearly trips over himself as Merlin hides behind a tree, slipping around the trunk like it’s never ending and Arthur doesn’t want it to stop. He’s happy, deliriously so. The happiness bubbles up in his chest like there’s not enough room for it, this stupid childish game with this stupid childish man and it’s invigorating.

Merlin takes off across a clearing then and Arthur follows. This time they’ve run out of steam because Merlin lets himself get caught and Arthur follows through. He catches him around the waist and lurches him bodily off the ground.

“Jesus fuck, Arthur!” Merlin shouts, giddy and laughing and flails against Arthur’s hold. He swings him around and Merlin fights to plant his feet on the ground, in the process kicking Arthur’s out from under him. With a shout and a tangle of limbs they fall. All the air slams out of Arthur as Merlin lands on top of him, still smiling and laughing.  
“You weigh a tonne,” he teases once he finds his air and Merlin makes an indignant squawk and adjusts himself so he’s sitting straddled on Arthur’s stomach, leaning over him.  
“Well it’s a good thing you didn’t land on me or you’d squash me into jelly,” Merlin quips and Arthur grunts, reaching up to brace Merlin’s hips.

“Are you calling me fat?” he growls and Merlin smirks.

“I wouldn’t go that far yet, Pendragon,” he hums, mocking. Arthur almost laughs at the expression on Merlin’s face but stops himself at the last moment.  
“Shut up,” he settles for and Merlin snickers, the laughter cutting short into a yelp of surprise as Arthur pushes himself upright, toppling Merlin off his lap and backwards onto the grass. This time it’s Arthur’s turn to brace himself over Merlin’s shoulders, except he leans down and kisses away the complaints already waiting on Merlin’s tongue. In that moment it becomes his favourite way to shut the idiot up.

Merlin melts into the kiss for a second, but then pulls away, his body tensing again, pushing himself up to press chest to chest with Arthur.

“Prat,” he mutters before kissing Arthur again, this time insistent and with tongue. Neither of them caring that they’re snogging in the middle of the park as the last joggers finish their routes along the paved pathways just beyond the trees.

 

*

 

It’s hard, in those first days, there’s still so much holding them back. Arthur knows it. He can _feel_ it. It’s not their fault. Not consciously, at least. He doesn’t think so, anyway.

But he knows.

How do you deal with your dreams actually coming true? Finding the answer you didn’t quite know you were looking for? What happens next?

He wants it to be simple. To be the happy ever after that there always was in storybooks. But it’s far more complex than that.

As Morgana is quick to remind him.

But Arthur knows there’s something holding them back and he has no idea what it is. He wants, with all his heart, for it to be simple, for it to be easy and uncomplicated. But relationships are complex at the best of times and there’s so much of Merlin that he hasn’t known for such a long time – if at all – that he finds himself floundering when all he wants to do is swim. Merlin, if anything, seems determined to prove something. Prove to Arthur that he’s his. But after so long apart, drifting without notice, being thrown together so quickly proves there’s something that doesn’t quite fit.

And it’s not something he can easily describe, either.

For a while, the only answer he can find is Gwaine. While the time he and Merlin spend together seems infinite and wonderful, their time apart drives Arthur to madness. The morning after their date, he wakes up to Merlin already wide-awake and watching him, silently. The moment he notices Arthur’s awake a slow smile had stretched across Merlin’s face – but the expression before it, the confused wonder in his eyes and the wry frown on his lips had followed Arthur around all day. The silent wonder that Merlin was unsure about what they’d done. About the fact that this time a month ago, it had been Gwaine in Merlin’s bed and now, he’d been looking at Arthur, searching for the answer to a question neither of them could name.

The anxious terror puts him on edge and a part of him wonders if this is what it’s like to love, to fall in love with a person the way poetry tells you. _Don’t leave me, even for an hour, because then the little drops of anguish will run together, the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift into me, choking my lost heart. (Pablo Neruda)_

A part of Arthur knows its paranoia driven by his own insecurities, but what else are insecurities for other than driving oneself absolutely mad?

They’re as strong as the little ball of happiness that lurks and glows when Arthur catches Merlin’s fingers in his own. When he feels the warmth of the idiot’s knee against his, when he finds that little curling smile that he’d lost for so long. It hums and glows and fills him up. And then, instead of dinner at this little Italian place in the citadel, Merlin hesitates and Arthur hears him frowning over the phone as he cancels. And then it all rushes back. Every insecurity, every moment of terror and jealousy. All of it.

Because while Merlin had asked for time, Arthur had forgotten it the moment Merlin kissed him.

Merlin had said he was sorry, said that he needed time, because he hurt himself and he hurt Gwaine and he hurt Arthur and that wasn’t going to fix itself right away.  
Arthur had understood that. What he hadn’t understood was the consequences.

It’s been a week since he and Merlin had sex, and despite the stringent need to do it again, to linger and haunt like a nervous fourteen-year-old girl, Arthur knows he has a problem to solve. An insecurity to quash before it eats him alive.

He’s never been to Percy’s house before. After everything that’s gone on in the past few months it’s sort of a shock when he realises it. Percy had been around at his old house all the time when Merlin was recuperating. They’d all been one big evolving family at that point, swapping Leon and Morgana and Percy and Mithian and Elena for whoever had a day off, lurking around trying to distract both Arthur and Merlin. Only Arthur hadn’t realised his own part in it back then.

Still, it’s a sort of disconcerting event to knock on Percy’s door to find Elyan opening it, shirtless. He watches the half bidden laughter on Elyan’s face dissolve until the man looks sort of unsure.

“Ah, Elyan. Right. I was looking for Gwaine. Merlin said he was staying here?” Elyan looks surprised for a moment and then nods.

“Yeah. He’s been a lump on the couch. I’ll go get him.” Elyan looks like he’s going to say something else but then stops and turns around, heading back into the dark warmth of the house only to stop again and glance back.

“Look, Arthur – “ he starts and right then Arthur knows what he’s about to say. It’s got that self-conscious awkwardness of an apology you don’t know how to make and Arthur doesn’t really want to hear it. That night was too much and something he wants to keep firmly in the past.

“I just wanted to – “ Elyan keeps saying and that’s where Arthur stops it.

“Don’t worry. All right? You thought you had reason and I’m already here to have one conversation I really don’t want to be having, I don’t really want to have two. However, I do apologise for punching you in the face.”

“I thought I heard your dulcet tones, Princess,” Gwaine says, suddenly, appearing from behind Elyan with a smirk on his face and a careless whip of his head, hair waving.  
Elyan just looks between the two of them and nods before heading back inside. Gwaine smirks and pushes himself off the wall to reach for the door.

“I’d like to talk to you,” Arthur says, feeling some of Elyan’s offhand awkwardness. Or perhaps it’s all of his own. This isn’t something he _really_ wants to be doing. But it’s something he needs to do, nonetheless.

For Merlin.

And also, for himself.

“I figured you’d be by eventually. Personally I would have thought it’d be before you shagged him.”

Arthur opens his mouth to reply then, this bursting feeling of indignation rising up in him and then deflating in an instant.

Gwaine just looks nonchalant, in a way that seems so fluid, but Arthur knows something about tension and it’s there, in his shoulders, in the shadow of his eyes.  
“That is none of your business,” he says, firmly. Gwaine chuckles.

“Yeah, well, it used to be my business,” he scowls, crudely. “But I get it, okay?” he rushes to say before Arthur can let the sudden burst of anger out. The idea that he could say something like that about Merlin –

Gwaine’s only saving grace is that he actually looks apologetic about it. And in that moment the façade cracks just a bit.

In all the time that Gwaine had stayed in Arthur’s house, as Arthur watched Gwaine help Merlin from corner to corner – he could never quite remember Gwaine seeming so _human_ as he did in that brief moment.

In that second Gwaine was angry and vulnerable and heartbroken and Merlin’s text message saying he had plans suddenly made so much sense. In his own happiness, Arthur had completely forgotten, in the most important ways, that Merlin and Gwaine had broken each other’s hearts.

Because Gwaine had let Merlin go, when Merlin had been desperate to hold on. Merlin had been determined to stay, but Gwaine had seen through him. Seen that no matter what he did, he was never going to reach that part of Merlin that was already Arthur’s.

“I wanted to thank you,” Arthur says. Gwaine looks shocked and unsure and then cracks a manic grin and laughs.

“For what, Princess? For sending him back to you all nicely packaged up. Did you like the bow?”

Arthur ignores the jibes.

“For taking care of him.”

Gwaine looks shocked for a moment. Confused even, and it makes him look like a dog, outsmarted and contrite.

“For loving him. And making sure he knew it.”

Gwaine has no quip for that; he just stands there, looking shocked.

“I’m sorry it came to this,” Arthur continues, forcing this bit out, this insecurity. “That we had to hurt him. But thank you for – “  
“I didn’t give him up for you, Princess. I did it for Merlin.”

“I know.”

“You treat him like gold, Pendragon. You got it? Because if you don’t, I don’t care how much money you’ve got. I’ll break both your legs and then I’ll start on you.”  
Arthur chuckles wryly and just nods at Gwaine’s serious expression. He knows it’s no joke, but it doesn’t matter because he’d expect no less.

He has no plans to ever let Merlin go and a determination to never see him hurt again, if he has any say.

It’s nice to know he’s got someone backing him up; that if things ever went astray, Merlin would never be on his own.

But despite his hope that seeing to Gwaine would suddenly solve the problems all at once, not everything solves itself. While the inbox of Arthur’s mobile has never been as full as it is now, with Merlin sending him almost all of his inane thoughts like the state of his sink is worth sharing, the days after their date are empty of Merlin’s physical presence and the lack of him is unsettling.

When all Arthur wants to do is spend every moment of his spare time with Merlin, craving his presence like he’s never craved anything before in his life, he finds himself at a blockade very quietly erected with the softly spoken words: “I need a little time to myself, okay?”

The sheer terror he’d felt after that tenuous phone call had been horrific. It didn’t matter how many platitudes Merlin said afterwards, rushing to apologise and promise things were okay, the anxiety Arthur was still feeling didn’t seem to abate in the slightest and the rose tinted glasses he’d been wearing dropped unceremoniously away, leaving him with the absolute truth that reality fucking sucked.

“I was wondering how long your stupid honeymoon phase was going to last, Arthur,” Morgana mocked as he stood behind her, patiently holding on to the small pile of baby clothes she was accumulating.

“I thought it was meant to last longer than like a week and a half, Morgana,” he scowled and rescinded his annoyance as she turned to glare at him.

“Not the honeymoon phase _between_ you two; just yours. You seemed to completely forget that Merlin broke up with his boyfriend for you.”  
“I never forgot.”

“Well, you certainly didn’t take it in, Arthur. From the moment Merlin showed up on your doorstop you’ve been completely obsessed with yourself. It’s about time you realised that Merlin’s tearing his hair out trying to figure this whole thing out. He was perfectly happy with Gwaine until you told him you loved him.”

“That was months ago.”

“Yes, and he ran away with Gwaine and tried to forget about it. He did a fair job of it I suppose. He was happy in Ireland. It did him a world of good. Gwaine got him out of his head after the accident. Then he comes back and when he tries to behave like an adult and sort it out with you, he winds up in a mess he has no idea how to get out of. And to top it off you and Gwaine are acting like children.”

“It’s not like I wanted this.”

“No, you wanted a fairy-tale, Arthur, and thank fuck you’ve realised fairy-tales don’t exist. What you do have is Merlin, in all his messed up glory. He’s all yours, brother dear; so don’t fuck him around anymore than you and Gwaine already have. Otherwise I’ll have to hurt you.”

“You’re my sister, Morgana, aren’t you supposed to me on my side?”

“No. In fact it’s my job to call you an arse. Now, green or yellow?” she replied, holding up two blankets and eyeing him expectantly.  
Arthur groaned.

And made his escape as soon as he could after that.

Morgana’s off brand of wisdom, however, was startlingly accurate, he found. Not that it was something he was ever going to admit to her. Going back time and again was admittance enough; he certainly wasn’t going to wound his pride any more by doing something foolish like show her his belly. Morgana was a hurricane, 90% attack, 10% defence.  
Merlin, on the other hand, retreated when vulnerable, running away to soothe away his thoughts and questions and returning when he had his answers. So Arthur waits. He answers Merlin’s silly inconsequential texts as easily as he can during the day, and at night, at seven thirty on the dot, he calls him.  
The first day, Merlin doesn’t answer.

But the second – Arthur listens to the phone ring, and ring and ring.

On the fourth tone, Merlin picks up.

“Elena sent me a picture of a cat today, it had ears just like yours,” he tells him instead of hello. Merlin snorts and laughs and a smile stretches its way across Arthur’s face. He relaxes against the couch, holding the phone to his ear.

“ _You could have just texted me that,_ ” Merlin replies, still sounding amused.

“I know, I missed your voice is all,” he says, enjoying the way he feels to admit that. To acknowledge that even though it’s only been four days since he last saw him, he genuinely misses Merlin.

“ _Really? Normally you’re telling me to shut up_ ,” Merlin quips, but there’s something in his voice that says his retort means otherwise.  
“Usually. But I think I’ve changed my mind.”

“ _Really_ ,” Merlin muses, wryly. It’s Arthur’s turn to chuckle this time.

“Not on everything. I still think Gwaine’s a cock, but on the you talking bit, I’ve altered my opinion.”  
“ _Nice to know._ ”

“I talked to him, you know. The other day.”

“ _He told me_.”

“Are you answering his phone calls and not mine, Merlin?”

“ _I told you I need some time, Arthur,_ ” he offers weakly and Arthur’s smile slips. He sounds so exposed right then. Something aches in Arthur’s chest.  
“You have everything you need. All the time in the world.”

_**Don’t leave me, even for an hour --** _

“ _I don’t need that, just a few days,_ ” Merlin says, sounding like a promise.  
“I can do that,” Arthur says and tucks the words away.

“ _Tell me about your day,_ ” Merlin says.

“Only if you tell me about yours.”

“ _Sounds fair_ ,” Merlin agrees.

His phone bill is going to be horrific, Arthur thinks idly, as he listens to Merlin chatter aimlessly about nothing that should be important.  
But it’s worth it, just to hear him talk.

So Arthur goes to work the next day and is halfway through the list of Very Important Things Helen had given him like an absentee child, when George interrupts him with coffee and a muffin that has a giant M xxx written in marker on the napkin. It just gets infinitely better after that.

Two days later, at seven o’clock when he gets home, he finds the lights on and the TV buzzing. He feels tired and a little sweaty in his suit but Merlin’s face just lights up when Arthur lingers in the kitchen doorway

“Special occasion?” he asks. Merlin shrugs.

“I asked for some time to myself. I think I underestimated how much time with you that I needed,” he says, offhand. Something ridiculous uncurls in Arthur’s stomach – all giddy happiness and adrenaline.

“Oh really?” he replies, teasing.

“Really, really,” Merlin nods, crossing the room to stand in front of Arthur and just looking at him for a moment.  
“I missed you,” Arthur admits, pleased with the way Merlin’s ears turn pink and how he nervously reaches out to play with Arthur’s tie.  
“Yeah?”

“Don’t make me admit it again.”

Merlin laughs at that, his eyes bright and his smile giddy and welcoming. He pulls Arthur forward with his tie then, pulling him into a kiss. Arthur sighs into it, appreciating the feel of him again.

“You’re a prat,” Merlin murmurs into it.

“Idiot,” he replies, fondly.

All he wants to do right then is pull Merlin’s legs around his waist and carry him into the bedroom. But Merlin squawks instead and hurries back to the stove just in time to stop whatever he has in the frying pan from going up in flames. Still, it’s ruined anyway.

“Guess it’s vegetarian pasta instead,” Merlin frowns. Arthur can’t help but laugh at the expression on his face.

Still, the food is good, just a little overcooked but tasty. Not that they eat a great deal of it. Merlin had been determined they have a sit-down dinner; hell, he’d even bought candlestick holders from somewhere. But instead they curl up on the couch, Merlin leaning his back against Arthur’s chest and they watch half of _Zoolander_ until Merlin wraps his fingers around Arthur’s wrist and guides the hand that’s been splayed out across his stomach below his jeans. After that Arthur has more important things to do than eat. Instead he turns his attentions towards learning Merlin’s body, the parts of him that make him shiver and moan and swear.

He learns the intimate parts of him that are now his alone, like how the spot just under his jaw nearly makes his eyes roll back in his head. He learns (and isn’t surprised) that Merlin is the biggest fucking cuddler in the world. But he doesn’t care, because the feeling of the skinny twat wrapped in his arms, listening to him breath and quietly murmur is the answer to so many questions.

It feels right. And no matter how many things in his life right up until this moment that he’s wanted to change – for so many reasons - if given the chance right then, he knows he wouldn’t change them. Because this, _this_ suddenly makes everything feel worth it.

 

*

 

The days carry on, after that, hurried and far too slow. Merlin kisses him awake and kisses him goodnight and Arthur craves him almost every moment in between. It’s worse, now, beyond the days when Merlin shut him out. Now, the door is open and he yearns for every moment that will let him in deeper.

It’s the same and different, Merlin’s tangible brilliance still seems beyond him, Merlin’s art still like some other world. But he lets Arthur see it nonetheless and that feels like a victory of its own. The key Merlin had given him for his apartment all those years ago now burns hot on Arthur’s keychain. It feels like a revelation to let himself into Merlin’s apartment and he relishes the untidy mess of uncluttered _Merlin_ all around him. The days Merlin spent alone revealing themselves in startling quality. Canvas and paper stretch around the room, faces staring back at him, blue and green and red and gold.

“Do you like them?” Merlin asks him, as Arthur stands in the middle of the room gaping at the canvases all around.

“You’ve done all these since you came back from Ireland?” he asks. Merlin hums, neither yes or no.

“Most of them. A few before.” He nods at a set of three in the corner, all dark brown and green, instinctively Arthur knows it’s Gwaine written there under the paint, just as Freya had been in the others all those years ago now.

“The rest of them are from the last few weeks, yeah. I didn’t sleep much, those first couple of days. I did a lot of thinking. When I’m painting I’m at least being useful mid mental breakdown. Helps sort stuff out.”

“Did you?” he asks.

Merlin smiles softly. “I did.”

“So,” he drawls, feeling vulnerable and responding in kind. “I’m obviously an inspiration.”

“Red’s always been your colour, Arthur,” Merlin teases. Arthur laughs and then looks again. Watching the transition of colour through the works, counting the red.  
Merlin’s paintings are swirling colour, changing from canvas to canvas. There’s enough there for another exhibit, enough of Merlin’s thoughts – all red and green and gold, blue and black and purple, tangible and bright – to fill a room, to fill the Avalon. Portraits of Arthur and Gwaine and Will, Oh godammit, portraits of Will: William Harris, the boy who had been there from Merlin’s beginning and yet wasn’t there anymore.

“You thinking of putting on another show?” he asks, wrapping his arms around Merlin and holding him tight.  
Merlin hums again, his voice vibrating through Arthur’s chest.

“Maybe,” he finally concedes. Arthur presses a kiss to his temple.

“You should.”

“It would feel wrong without Gwen helping,” Merlin admits quietly and something jolts in Arthur’s stomach. Merlin’s arms around his waist tighten for a moment in reflex and neither of them speak until the quiet is almost unbearable.

“You could talk to her,” he offers and Merlin presses his nose into Arthur’s hair.

“Maybe,” he replies. “I’d like to check with Gwaine first. See if he wants any.”

That part of Arthur that’s still full to the brim with jealousy and the disbelief that Merlin is _his_ flares hot and bright for a moment but he breathes out and nods.  
“I’m not going to stop seeing him, Arthur,” Merlin warns, like he _knows_. He probably does. Arthur grunts and at that Merlin just huffs a soft laugh.

“I don’t want to lose him. But I promise I’ll still come home to you,” he swears kissing Arthur’s cheek.

He nods, wanting to believe it. Truly he does.

But it’s not until three days later that he does.

He’s not particularly ready for the phone call he gets off a strangled Leon just as he’s trying to leave the office. He had plans for the rest of the night, calm, controlled plans that would have given him a chance to tackle the mountain of paperwork he’s still behind on and possibly avoid it by calling Merlin and convincing him to come over. They weren’t brilliant plans, but he had been looking forward to them. Instead he finds himself driving in circles around the hospital car park trying to find somewhere to stop. It takes nearly ten minutes for him to find somewhere he can pull into out the front of someone’s house a block and a half away from the entrance to the hospital. He closes the distance in a jog and tries to ignore the memories he has of this damn place circling into closer attention as he takes the stairs up to the main entrance.

“The natal ward, please?” he asks the woman chewing gum behind the counter and she breaks into a smile. It must be nice, every now and again, to be able to help direct someone towards good news.

“West side building, birth rooms are second floor,” she smiles and Arthur tries to give her one in return but mostly he just feels sort of panicky and sweaty. It’s the building, he thinks, as he wanders up the same blank, beige corridors towards the west side building. The sounds are the same and the lights are the same as he careens up the last of the stairs and down to the waiting area. His life is in a very different place now than it had been then. Back then he’d been married; he’d been happy right up until two police officers had knocked on his door. He’d had his life half planned. He had Gwen, they’d been married and in twelve months maybe they’d have thought about children. Now, now it’s over six months over and Morgana is the one hours into spitting out her own spawn.

Then, as he nears the waiting room door, there’s the sound of a bursting, affectionate laugh that he’s known for years and years. As he enters the room his gaze almost immediately finds Merlin, Merlin who is curled up on the chair next to Gwaine, his feet tucked up under Gwaine’s knees as the other man lounges back. Seeing Merlin there, bright and alive in that moment is enough to push everything away. Except in its place, for that moment, as he stands there, all he can feel is this bursting jealousy, this anger to get Merlin as far away from Gwaine as he could. This anger that Gwaine should _know better_ ; Merlin was _his_ now. The two of them are leaning into each other as they speak in otherwise whispers. There are a half dozen other people in seats around the room at the moment, the only ones he recognises are Leon’s parents, looking calm and content where they’ve set up with blankets in the corner. But Merlin only has eyes for Gwaine.

Arthur clears his throat as he walks towards them, his fingers itching to pull Merlin away. But the moment Merlin hears him his whole demeanour changes. Merlin sits up straight and twists, his feet coming down from the chair until he’s almost about to stand and just beams at him.

The foul monster in Arthur stops, right then, flushing with pride as he glances at Gwaine. Gwaine just smirks, like he _knows_. But Arthur couldn’t care less. Because this, this is like the answer.

“Hi,” Arthur smiles.

“Arthur!” Merlin greets happily and hums affectionately as Arthur slumps into the spare seat beside the pair of them. Almost immediately Merlin shifts his direction, turning until he’s facing Arthur, but he’s not happy until he swings his feet up and rests them across Arthur’s lap, looking pleased with himself. The little green monster just lets out a content little hiss and settles back down, leaving Arthur feeling smug in his victory. Though he gives Gwaine the honour of not throwing it in his face. Not completely at least.

“How long have you been here?” he asks instead, casting a glance over at Leon’s parents. They look like they’re settling down for the long haul. There are blankets and books involved.

“An hour?” Merlin hums, smiling as he looks over at them. “Long enough to hear Morgana try and fire two doctors. And Leon.”

Arthur can’t help but laugh then, because that sounds about right.

“How long can this go on for?” he asks and this time Merlin makes a face.

“Days, sometimes. They’re not expecting the baby until like midnight or something.”

“I thought she’d have cracked by now and demanded a c-section,” he says, offhanded and Merlin and Gwaine laugh.

“Leon said she tried when they got here, but since she went into labour and there are no complications they’re advising her against it. You should have seen him, Arthur, white as a fucking sheet.”

“He has to deal with Morgana while a watermelon comes out her vagina, I’d be in Laos by now.”

That makes both Merlin and Gwaine cackle.

“You and me both, mate,” Gwaine grins and he must have poked Merlin or something because Merlin makes a face and shifts while Gwaine makes make an _oof_ sound in retaliation.

Arthur looks away and in that moment he turns back to the hall only to come face to face with Gwen, who is uncomfortably standing in the doorway. Merlin falls quiet and looks away and Arthur feels him shift. He doesn’t move to take his feet off Arthur’s lap, though. Arthur settles a hand across his skinny ankles just in case. He watches the blush creep across Gwen’s cheeks.

She doesn’t say anything, just ducks her head and goes to sit by herself further down the row of chairs. Arthur follows her as she moves. It’s the first time he’s seen her since she gave back her rings and she looks good. There’s no lingering sadness to her, which is nice.

“You should go talk to her,” Merlin whispers into Arthur’s ear and he nearly jumps out of his skin. Behind Merlin Gwaine snickers and Arthur scowls at him. The man just laughs louder and Merlin throws him back a fond look before turning to look at Arthur again. His eyes are wide and impossibly blue and Arthur just nods.

“Sometimes I forget which one of us makes decisions for a living,” he mutters as he stands up and this time Merlin laughs.

Gwen doesn’t look at him until he’s standing over her, and he watches how she fixates on searching through her handbag until he’s right there, casting her in shadow.  
“Hi,” he says, trying not to flinch at the barrage of memories that word unwittingly carries with it. Gwen just smiles softly and looks up at him.  
“Hi.”

“Merlin said she’s not due for ages yet, I was going to get coffees – would you like to join me?”

She’s only just arrived, and it’s awkward for the both of them, but it feels right as she nods and rummages through her bag for her wallet.

“You can leave your bag here. It’s safe unless there are sweets hidden in there. You know how Merlin is,” he shrugs and again, tries not to flinch. Gwen just smiles and stands up.  
He leads the way, casting a quick look at Merlin as they walk past and tries to ignore the hesitant little smile on his face.

Gwen just walks beside him. He looks at her, unflinching as he searches for some evidence of everything changing, but it’s almost like nothing has – her hair’s a little longer, perhaps, but she’s still wrapped in soft cotton – comfort clothes, he thinks. She still smells the same and smiles the same and if everything had been like before, this might have been them. They could have been parents, instead of Morgana and Leon. But things do change and despite the vertigo of it all, having his past _right there_ ; he wouldn’t change the outcome. Not now.

Not Merlin.

“So,” he says, breaking the quiet and feeling immediately stupid about it.  
Gwen laughs.

“So,” she mimics, before breaking into chatter – because she’s always been good at talking, at getting people to talk.

“I hear you moved?”

And isn’t that the most innocuous of all the things that have happened to bring up. He chuckles.

“Yeah, East Lowerton, at the moment. It’s… different.”

“It’s the least posh thing you could have done. You’re the owner of a multimillion pound company and you live in student digs. Oh Arthur.”

“Shut up, this is my mid-life crisis.”

“It’s your mid twenties crisis. This is embarrassing.”

“It is,” he admits and can’t help but laugh then, because it _really is_. He should probably move again. Even though he only just finished unpacking everything.  
“But I hear you and Merlin – “ Gwen prods and he sobers, then. Because this will always be his sore spot. Especially with her. It’s not something he will ever hold against Merlin, but against Gwen – it’s not something he can forgive her for.

“Yeah,” he brokers, feeling exposed for a moment. Despite how far they’ve already come, their relationship is still new, vulnerable in its own. She’s just asking, but it feels like prying, like gossip. He doesn’t like it.

“I’m glad,” she hurries to say and he can feel her withdraw from the topic.

“I live in Southbank,” she says. “There’s a little gallery that took me on. It’s not quite like the Avalon, but it’s nice.”

“I’m sorry about your job,” he tells her. She nods, looking a little disappointed.

“So am I. I thought maybe I had more loyalty there, but… it’s alright. Shallott’s treating me okay.”

“I’m glad,” Arthur nods. Feeling that little anxiety in the back of his head give way. Elyan’s accusations had been wild and uncalled for at the time, but the more he’d thought about it, the more he’d wondered whether he had something to do with it just by association.

“Are you and Lance…” Arthur asks before he can stop himself, because while Gwen has Elyan and Elyan has been able to keep her in the loop with her old friends, Arthur hasn’t been able to ask about her – he just hasn’t had the courage yet. That and he’s still a bit annoyed with him. But he does want to know if she’s okay, despite everything. And Lance… well…  
“No,” she blushes. “We, er, we keep in touch. But I couldn’t. Not after. Not after everyone we hurt.”

He nods and leads them over to the coffee maker. He pulls out his card and cranks up the numbers, thankful that vending machines no longer just rely on change as he orders coffee for all of them. And a hot chocolate for Merlin.

None of them look particularly appetising, but Gwen thanks him as he hands one over to her. They stand around the machine not talking while the other cups fill up. Balancing his own, plus Merlin’s and Gwaine’s, they begin their meandering walk back up to the waiting room, pockets full of milk and sugars.

“Are you okay?” he asks her, eventually. It’s probably too late a question; after all this, after everything – Merlin, Lance, the rings, the divorce, the sheer absence of emotion about it all – there wasn’t even an argument about everything. He kept Pen Inc and he kept his house and made his lawyers deal with the rest. He’s not even sure what Gwen got out of the whole thing. Whether she’s safe, content, happy.

She offers him a smile then, holding three cups of her own and she nods.

“I am, Arthur,” she nods and something settles in his chest he didn’t know was contorted. If this is what closure feels like then it seems so odd a thing to crave because there’s no marching brass band – there’s barely anything at all, just like this odd little feeling in his chest that some part of his life he was still clinging to, has all of a sudden fallen away. And he’s okay with it.

“Good,” he nods and smiles at her.

“I’m glad you came. I’m sure Morgana is as well.”

Gwen smiles properly then, like she used to and he leads her back into the waiting room, where Merlin’s no longer sitting in Gwaine’s lap, but on the floor with his legs stretched out in front of him. Arthur snorts as he heads over. Gwaine eyes him for a moment as Arthur leans out with the three cups.

“Take yours first because if I offer it out to Merlin he’ll end up wearing all three of them. They’re not going to be nice, but it’s hot.” On the floor Merlin grumbles and pouts and Gwaine chuckles as he takes one of the cups. Arthur shifts his fingers and holds out the hot chocolate down to Merlin. Who is still frowning until Arthur settles back in his seat and fishes out three sugars from his pocket and throws them at Merlin. After that the Idiot starts beaming at him.

“Milk, sugar?” he offers to Gwaine who takes one of each and nods his thanks.

“Anything interesting happen while I was gone?” he asks and Gwaine laughs.

“Nope,” he smacks his lips and makes an exaggerated grimace as he takes a sip of coffee.

“That is foul, princess. Where’d you get it?”

“Machine down the hall,” he shrugs and tries not to wince as he tastes it himself. Merlin, still on the floor, just hums happily and drinks the pale, greyish looking drink Arthur bought him.

After that, there’s not a great deal to do as they wait it all out. Gwaine gets up to stretch his legs a few times by which time Merlin takes to leaning against Arthur’s knees and peering up at him.  
“How was Gwen?” he asks softly, the first time Gwaine disappears off to the loo.  
“Fine,” he says, running a hand through Merlin’s hair. It tangles against his fingers and Merlin closes his eyes for a second as he does so until it runs smooth.  
“Are you alright?” he asks then and this time Arthur smiles properly and watches the tension ease out of Merlin’s expression.

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Are we – “

“Don’t say it,” he warns and this time Merlin laughs, sounding relieved. Arthur shakes his head at him.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” he chides and Merlin pokes his tongue out at him, digging his fingernails into Arthur’s leg.

“Prat,” Merlin mutters.

From there he just sort of leans against Arthur and for a while Arthur’s not sure whether or not the idiot has gone to sleep as he runs his fingers through his hair. At one point he stops and Merlin makes a sound in the back of his throat like a cat and he just laughs and keeps going again.

After that Leon makes his first appearance since Arthur’s been there and upon seeing his oldest friend he just starts laughing, because Merlin was right. He’s as white as a sheet and sweaty to boot.

“How’s Morgana?” he asks and Leon laughs hesitantly.

“She has a grip on her. And she’s never allowed to be in possession of any sort of cutting implement ever again. You hear?” that just makes everyone laugh; including Leon’s very distinguished looking parents. Leon garners another hug from his mother for his efforts then and a slap on the back from his father.

“How are things out here?” Leon asks and Arthur shrugs.

“Should have brought a book. I thought it was going to be more exciting than this,” he says and Leon just smirks.

“You want exciting? How about you go in and see your sister? Let her hold your hand for a bit?”

Merlin starts laughing as Arthur shakes his head.

“Noooo, no you got her into this mess, you can deal with it. I’m staying out here, away from the violence and the sister and the poop.”

Leon opens his mouth to say something when there’s an echoing scream from somewhere down the ward that’s the loudest yet and a few moments later a smiling little nurse pops her head around the door and calls for Leon.

“She’s calling for you,” she beams, like this is the best part of her day, terrifying the men who hide out in this room. Leon laughs nervously and hurries after her.

It’s not long after that when the echoing shouts start to get more common. They’re usually unintelligible but Arthur grew up with Morgana and he knows the way her voice carries. It’s a welcome distraction in the end when Mithian and Elena show up, arms full of pillows and bears and balloons and bags bursting at the seams.

Merlin gets up immediately to go hug them and start rifling through their bags as they congregate around a couple of the empty chairs. Elena, Arthur notices, makes a point of ignoring Gwen, and Gwen shuffles further out of the way, still clutching her phone.

“Hello boys,” Elena smiles, bouncing over to sit on the other side of Arthur and offering him something wrapped in brown paper. Peering into it his stomach makes a hungry gurgle at the fat pasty still warm in its wrapping.

“There’s sandwiches for later. And we have drinks.”

“Did you girls make a picnic for Morgana’s spawning day?” Gwaine asks and gets a kick in the leg from Elena, who has to lean over Arthur to do it and almost unseats herself. Gwaine cackles louder at that than at his own joke.

“We thought ahead,” Mithian smiles, rummaging into her bag and dragging out a book.

“Look Arthur, we brought you a story book,” she giggles and Arthur groans as he reaches out to pluck it out of her grasp.

“You never told me you’d made another one,” he frowns down at Merlin who just smiles up at him.

“It’s a series, plucky Prince Prat and his magical sorcerer. In this one we rescue a baby dragon and it sits on you.”  
“ _Sits_ on me? _Mer_ lin!”

Everyone laughs again and then the corridor echoes with Morgana screaming again.

“She’s probably just yelling at Leon,” Mithian offers as Arthur looks towards the corridor.

“She would have got an epidural the moment they offered it to her,” Elena pipes up.

And then without any time at all there’s a wailing cry echoing in place of Morgana and every single one of them is quiet and on their feet as an ecstatic Leon scatters into the room.  
“It’s a girl!” he grins and they all start laughing.

 

*

 

It takes a while before they’re allowed in to see them. The ward’s a lot quieter without Morgana’s however-necessary screaming, but between the lot of them, there’s not an absence of chatter, not with the excitement between the group.

Leon went back to the ward pretty quickly after his announcement, but it didn’t leave everyone else to fall back into quiet. Arthur shakes the hands of Leon’s parents, perfectly happy in that moment. Without Uther or Morgana’s mother he’s the closest they have to sharing the joy. He’s known them half a lifetime, really; time seems to stretch back when he tries to remember that very first time he met them. The Cameliard’s had been long standing partners with his father, long before Uther had bought them out and pushed their media firm into his conglomerate. Arthur had been a boy, no more than four or five when he’d met Leon’s mother. He has this vague memory of a woman with gleaming blond hair in curls and a shimmering dress bending over to check he had everything sorted where he was hiding under one of the banquet tables at one of his father’s gatherings. He can’t remember why he’d been there, Uther firing one of their Nanny’s or a personal emergency or something of the like. Seranne Cameliard had fixed his bowtie and made the waiters bring him a cup of juice and something to eat because Morgana, the traitor, had gone rogue on her mission. At least that’s the story Seranne had told him over the years. It feels clumsy and foolish now, all these years later, now that they’re family. They’re as close to family as they’ll get until Leon somehow manages to convince Morgana to marry him. A few doors away there’s a little girl, just minutes old, who is Arthur’s niece and their first grandchild.

It’s sort of bewildering.

“You’ll have to come around some time, Arthur, we’ll break out the good stuff and celebrate the proper way. Bring your boy. We’ll make a family event of it,” Noel says, squeezing Arthur’s hand and he instinctively looks over his shoulder, searching out Merlin in the room. Gwaine is pestering Elena, he spots, and Merlin is perched on the closest chair, hugging his knees and grinning at Mithian while he watches the two of them. A burst of affection blooms in Arthur’s chest as his gaze lingers on Merlin and he clears his throat, trying not to blush with it. Noel chuckles.

“He’s a good lad, that Merlin,” he chides and this time Arthur does squirm.

“He is at that,” he agrees and Seranne laughs.

“It’s good to see you happy, dear. We did worry after you and Gwen…” she trails off and Arthur watches Seranne look towards Gwen’s corner of the waiting room. She’s still there, her phone in hand, texting as she had been when Arthur approached the Cameliard’s, a small, tender smile on her face.  
“Things are good, these days,” he agrees and makes his escape.

He beelines for Merlin and enjoys the way Merlin jolts when he leans over the chairs and kisses the crown of his head and then lets the tension just seep out of him.  
“Hello stranger,” Merlin smiles, nodding towards Gwaine and Elena where the pair of them have dragged Mithian to her feet to try and use as a barrier in their wrestling flirting.  
“Gwaine’s assaulting people he doesn’t know, I’m supervising.”

“You’re not doing a very good job,” Arthur points out and Merlin smirks, leaning into him as Arthur perches his chin against the hollow of Merlin’s neck.  
“I’m trying to get him laid, I think it might be working,” he shrugs. “They both seem okay with it.”

“Don’t do that to me, Merlin,” he replies and enjoys the rumble in Merlin’s throat as he hums.

“Today’s an exciting day, why can’t it be for everyone?” Merlin asks and Arthur refuses to reply, enjoying their body contact and how soothing it is.

Eventually Leon wanders out and calls for his parents, shooting them an apologetic look that Arthur tosses away. Noel and Seranne don’t stay long; after all they’re probably the closest ones to understand what’s gone on in that room and the privacy that Morgana and Leon probably want with their new baby.

But all the same, Leon comes back some time later and gathers them all up, still looking energised and terrified and bouncing with adrenaline.

The girls lead the way, dragging Merlin along with them; the idiot smiling like it’s going out of fashion. Arthur lingers at the back, even beyond Gwaine, which is why he spots Gwen with her bag over her shoulder lingering halfway between the waiting room and the hall.

“Hey!” Arthur calls, catching her attention. She blushes and for a moment they’re half a decade younger and she’s everything he loved about her, blushing and talking herself into corners. And then it doesn’t matter.

“Aren’t you coming in?” he asks.

Gwen stops and takes a breath, before shaking her head.

“Not today. Not right now. There are too many people in there I’ve hurt and today is supposed to be happy. I’ll come by tomorrow or the day after. See her then. Or maybe when they’re home, even. Just… tell Morgana and Leon congratulations for me?”

In that moment Arthur would like to ask her to stay. But she can’t, not for him, but for herself. In that moment he can see the way she’s still punishing herself and being punished. The line is still there. One day he’d like it gone.

But not today.

He nods and watches her leave before he follows the others. When he stops in the doorway he can’t help the smile that creeps onto his face. Morgana looks spent, her hair pulled back messily but sweat drenched all the same. She looks pallid and exhausted, but there’s a little bundle in pink blankets clutched to her chest that’s garnering the attention of everyone in the room.

Elena and Mithian are peering at her with wide eyed looks on their faces; Leon is hovering, looking too big for his limbs and knowing it. Gwaine is lounging in the corner looking amused while Merlin’s lurking in the chair by Morgana’s bed.

“There you are, brother dear, we thought you’d lost your nerves,” Morgana mocks. Arthur just shrugs, not wanting to spoil this by letting his sister bait him.  
“So you got a name yet?” he asks instead and Leon grins.

“Anna,” he smiles. “Anna Vivienne Cameliard.”

“That’s got a pretty ring to it,” Gwaine pipes up before anyone else can say anything.

“You’re not going to hyphenate? What about the Pendragon line, Morgana?” Arthur asks then, unable to help himself.

Surprisingly, Morgana blushes. And Leon laughs.

“I won,” Leon says proudly and Arthur has no idea what on earth he means. Merlin, however, starts laughing and doesn’t stop even when Morgana hits him.  
“What?” Elena asks.

“Morgana agreed to marry him!” Merlin says smugly and earns another smack from Morgana. Arthur chuckles.

“Got anything to add, Morgana?” he teases, vastly enjoying the way Morgana looks red and furious.

“Only to shut him up! I had his child coming out my vagina, I’d say anything!”

“But you said ‘yes’ which is the important thing,” Mithian smirks.

“And didn’t take it back,” Leon adds sounding thankful. In that moment Arthur shelves the conversation because the last thing he wants is Morgana to take it back out of spite.  
“Can I hold her?” he asks then and Morgana stiffens and then relaxes a moment later, nodding.

“Sure,” she says, as Arthur shifts forward across the room. “But if you drop her I swear there’s nowhere – “

“I can run, I got it,” he finishes, feeling suddenly very large as he looks down at the tiny mewling baby his sister is holding. Morgana gently passes her over, adjusting the position of the blankets like a nervous tick and Arthur just smiles at her, his ice-cold sister nervously adjusting her baby’s blankets. Her baby.  
“Hello, Anna,” he smiles down at her, tiny and vulnerable with her head of dark hair and her skin dappled bright pink. “Welcome to the family.”

No one says anything for a moment, though Arthur’s not entirely sure if they were quiet or whether he blocked them all out for that brief second, but then Gwaine goes and ruins it.

“Smile!” Gwaine says from his corner and everyone sort of jumps just in time to hear the running _click-click-click_ of Gwaine’s camera. Everyone is going to look horrible, Arthur thinks, he’s suddenly aware of how rumpled his clothes are, and no one has ever had photographic evidence of Morgana with sweat drenched hair and no makeup on, but this is an exception. This is his niece and something seems to swell inside of him, like a balloon of hot air that grows and grows until he can’t stop smiling.  
This is his family.

Morgana drifts off to sleep soon after that, unable to keep her eyes open any longer, but long enough to make sure Arthur hands Anna over to Leon first. From that moment, as he catches the tender look Leon shoots her way as he clutches his newborn daughter to his chest Arthur feels suddenly in the way. He glances at Merlin to find the idiot already standing with a fond smile on his face and smirks when Merlin catches him. Merlin’s cheeks flush and he looks away, but he leans into Arthur all the same, his fingers curling around Arthur’s own. His touch is cold but there’s something warm and alive in Arthur’s chest that nothing could kill right at that moment.

“We should go,” he says to Leon, ignoring the way his friend jolts back into himself as if he’d forgotten that everyone else in the room existed.

“Yeah,” Mithian agrees right away, catching on before Arthur had even made an effort to get anyone else out the door. The girls pause to kiss Leon on the cheek and catch another glimpse of the baby before taking Gwaine by the arms, one on each side, and frog-marching him out of the room.

Merlin grins at the three of them before he winds his way around the bed to lean over and kiss Morgana on the forehead. She doesn’t stir, completely dead to the world.  
“I’ll call you later tonight, see when the best time to come back is. If you and Morgana want us to, that is.”

“Thanks for waiting around, you two. And the others. Can you let them know?” Leon asks. The baby makes a mewling sound in his arms and a panicked look appears on his face. That’s Arthur’s cue to leave. Merlin’s waiting by the door for him and he takes Arthur’s hand as they head out into the corridor.

 

“She’s cute,” Merlin says once they reach the waiting bay. Arthur can’t help it, he laughs. It just seems so ridiculous.

“What?” Merlin asks, perplexed.

“Nothing, it’s just – Morgana just became responsible for another life. And Leon. Morgana and Leon have a baby.”  
“You didn’t think it could happen?”

“No! Yes? I suppose. No, I have no idea. I just never thought Morgana would be the first of us. Growing up she never wanted kids. She was adamant about it.”

“She was pretty sure in university as well, Arthur. Sometimes it just takes something. Or someone.”

“If he hurts them I’m going to tell George to find me hit man,” Arthur replies. Merlin starts laughing, sounding practically hysterical. He almost stops, but then Merlin looks at Arthur again and then starts up again. For a moment Arthur’s annoyed, but the joy in Merlin’s eyes, how he wipes tears from his cheeks and his breath hiccups, dissolves it.

“What?”

Merlin takes a moment to catch his breath before he answers.

“She’s been alive for an hour, Arthur and you’re already a growling, over-protective uncle,” Merlin teases.

Arthur opens his mouth to protest, to snap back – but he can’t. Because it’s true. Because as he looks fondly at Merlin and glances back towards the room where his sister and her baby and bloody _Leon_ are sequestered he finds himself suddenly aware in that moment of all the people, the precious people he has to be protective of. And it feels vulnerable. But right.

“Some things you gotta take care of,” he replies, aware of how his voice croaks and rumbles and how Merlin just looks fondly up at him.

“You’re a good man, Arthur Pendragon,” he says.

 

*

 

That night Merlin comes home with him. He wraps his arms around Arthur as he pulls off his jacket and toes off his shoes. Arthur feels almost hypersensitive as he watches him, Merlin’s eyes impossibly large and so Goddamn blue staring back at him. He shivers as Merlin’s fingers tug at the hem of his shirt and slide across the muscles of his back, just trailing across his skin, pulling him close. Merlin’s breath is hot against his neck as Merlin rests there, cheek to cheek, just holding him. For a moment Arthur has absolutely no idea what to do, and then it all just clicks and he slides one hand into Merlin’s hair and just breathes him in. There’s no other sound in the house in that moment except for Merlin’s breathing. Nothing else worth doing or being in that moment except right where he was.

Merlin sighs, long and low and they’re so close Arthur can feel the muscles in his chest contract as he breathes in and out. He can feel the air on his skin as Merlin breathes and he knows that the idiot, his idiot, is smiling.

“Move in with me,” he says, without thinking. But the moment the words are out, the more he wants them. With every passing moment. Just this, Merlin and him, together again. Just this, always.

Merlin goes stiff in Arthur’s arms for a moment and then laughs. It’s his surprised laugh, the bark and giggle that lights up his face and makes his eyes glisten and crinkle. He shakes his head as he smiles.

“I think less than three weeks is a little early,” he teases. But Arthur doesn’t care.

“I’ve known you for years. I’ve lived with you for years. I don’t care. Move in with me.”

Merlin just fixes him with a soft glare, then. Just studies him for a moment before breaking out into a fond smile.

“Okay. I will. But not yet.” Arthur wants to laugh wildly, how happy he feels right then. Something must be in his expression because Merlin just laughs at him, and Arthur knows the idiot is laughing at him and not with him. But he looks fond and happy and so it doesn’t matter.

“God knows why, but I’m in love with you, you prat. But we’ve got all the time in the world, you know. And I intend to use it,” his lips curl into a knowing smirk and he leans in to kiss Arthur, long and slow and enough to drive Arthur insane with the desperation to feel him, all of him. Skin to skin. Feel his heart beat through his skin and feel his breath in his ear and taste him. God, taste him.

“We’ve got all the time in the world,” Merlin says again and reaches for Arthur’s belt.

In the end Arthur doesn’t get any of his paperwork done, but he figures he has a fair excuse, even with Helen, who, disturbingly, actually sounded human when he called her to recount the news and to release the statement to the press.

But while his work fell, once again, to the backbench, he did enjoy distracting himself with Merlin. Merlin, who woke him up with a kiss and god-awful morning breath, with his hair sticking up six ways to Sunday. But something just fits as he watches him arch like a cat with the sheets pooling around his back before pulling himself out of bed and starting to rummage for his pants wherever they’d disappeared the night before. Seeing Merlin just wander around like he belongs makes Arthur happier than he’s been in a long time. But then Merlin ruins it by throwing Arthur’s pants at him and telling him to get dressed. Instead of lazy shower sex, Merlin drags him out for coffee and muffins and then over to Morgana’s so they can make sure that there’s something for Morgana and Leon to come home to. The idea is sound, but Arthur would much rather have been at home in the shower. That is until he watches Gwaine kneel down in front of their door and start picking the lock. Morgana has a key for (both of) his apartment(s) and Arthur has a key for hers. But that’s not something that he tells anyone as they all stand around watching. He’s pretty sure that Merlin has a key as well, considering how close he and Morgana have always been. But Merlin doesn’t say anything either. It feels sort of shady and he doesn’t want to think about _why_ Gwaine acquired such a skill. Mostly he’s just thankful that it’s not a skill he passed along to Merlin along with picking pockets. It was cute once or twice, but Merlin’s blissfully sneaky when he’s in a good mood and he’s nicked Arthur’s wallet four times when they’ve been out recently. He’d smack the idiot but he quite enjoys the way Merlin’s eyes crinkle with glee when he gets found out – especially when Arthur’s _trying_ to pay for lunch.

But the morning doesn’t wind up so bad. It ends up being a group effort, with Mithian and Elena showing up half an hour after they break inside. Once again it’s the girls who bring a majority of the stuff, dragging more balloons and streamers and stuffed bears they couldn’t leave behind at the hospital.

Arthur’s flowers for Morgana and the plush bear for his niece look practically dismal beside the ridiculous size of Elena’s main addition. The stuffed unicorn is almost as big as Elena and winds up taking up a good corner of the nursery.

But the house feels warm and welcoming and brings back a bit of the rush they’d felt at the hospital. Leon had called and told him Morgana was staging a jailbreak that day, already sick of the hospital food and the way the bed creaked. But considering how easy her birth was, the hospital was almost as keen to get her out as she was to escape. It was sort of soothing to know that Morgana was just as feral to people who irritated her now as she had been two days ago. He doesn’t know why he was expecting her to change so dramatically.

Merlin goes about stocking the fridge, tossing out anything that could have gone off in the last few days, just to be on the safe side and filling it full of pre-made soup, casserole and fruit. He updates the milk and eggs and thoroughly enjoys himself despite the ribbing from Elena and Mithian who seem to have become thick as thieves and Arthur still has no idea where the two girls met. But he has a strong suspicion it had something to do with an M. He just isn’t quite sure if it was Merlin or Morgana, and doesn’t think it entirely matters.

Instead he just does as they tell him, coordinating with Gwaine to tie a ‘CONGRATULATIONS’ banner across the room and fix balloons to different pieces of furniture to stop them hitting the roof where Elena can’t reach them.

When they’re done the place looks a little bit like a kid’s toyshop. It feels ridiculous and over the top but Arthur can’t make himself care less. Anna is his niece. She is a Pendragon and Pendragons deserved the best.

It feels sort of odd to lurk in Morgana and Leon’s house without them there. He’s spent more than enough time here over the years that he knows where everything is, and even Merlin knows his way around the place like he’s lived there. But considering how long he’s known Morgana, it’s not particularly shocking.

In the end they wind up timing it rather well. They’ve only been slumped on the couches for about half an hour before they hear the rumble of Leon’s car pull into its spot downstairs and they gather underneath the banner. Merlin parks himself next to Arthur and squeaks rather comically when Arthur reaches down to take his hand. The blush that spreads across his cheeks is adorable; it makes him look ridiculous with his ears a little pink and his eyes bright. His smile is still too big for his face sometimes. The one he’s wearing is bright and bursting and surprised, and it slides onto his face unselfconsciously. It’s one of Arthur’s favourites.

He squeezes Merlin’s hand again and smiles at him and Merlin just chuckles and looks away.  
But he squeezes back.

For that moment they could have been the only two people on the planet.

Then the muffled sounds of Morgana talking break the spell and the world comes sharply back into focus, just in time for Leon to open the front door.

“- Oh you’re fucking kidding me!” Morgana says, loudly, as they all let out a raucous, undignified welcome. Everyone says something different because they didn’t think of something beforehand and a moment later they all start laughing.

Morgana looks unimpressed where she’s standing, her arms full of blankets, a tiny pink head peaking out the top with a scruff of black hair. She looks exhausted still, but flushed and exasperated all at once.

“We thought we’d celebrate a little more,” Merlin shrugs and Morgana scowls and rolls her eyes and then, alarmingly, starts smiling.

“I fucking hate all of you,” she says, and promptly bursts into tears.

Merlin crosses the room and wraps his arms around Morgana and Anna and that’s that.

It’s all barely started, Arthur realises then, they’ve all barely started. The entirety of Anna’s life is in front of her – Morgana’s, Leon’s – hell, even his own has changed beyond all comprehension.

The Pendragon’s have a new dynasty, he realises. Uther’s dream, in that long-forgotten Will has finally come true. Morgana may not have opened up Pendragon Manor, but she’s got a family, now. A chance at a happily ever after.

Hell, so does he, he thinks, as he watches Merlin, his palms tingling with the memory of Merlin’s skin, how his hand fits into Arthur’s.

Maybe they’ve both got a chance.

 _We’ve got all the time in the world,_ Merlin had said.

“Come here, you,” he says as Morgana breaks away from Elena’s awkward, bumbling congratulations. They’ve never been good at feelings, he and Morgana, not with each other. Not as siblings. But he wraps his arms around Morgana and holds her close, holds her tight.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispers and closes his eyes as she makes a half sob in reply and holds him tighter.

“How the fuck did we manage this? Huh?” he whispers and this time she laughs, this time she lets him go and doesn’t hide it when she wipes her face.  
“I’ve no fucking idea,” she replies. Arthur grins.

“We better not screw up, this time,” he shrugs and she laughs again.

“You and me both, little brother,” she quips.

“Better stop swearing,” he smirks, poking her. She hisses and hits him. “You’re a mother now, Morgana, you’ve gotta start wearing flat shoes and track pants.”

“I’m going to stab you, one day,” she threatens. “God help me. And I’ll fucking stop swearing when I fucking need to and not a moment sooner. Anna doesn’t have a clue whether I’m saying ‘fuck’ or ‘mummy’ yet. I’ll deal with it when I need to!”

And when Merlin starts laughing first, the sound of his laughter echoing over the top of all the others, Arthur just smiles, because this, this moment – is as close to perfect as he’s ever going to get.

And he’s pretty okay with that.

“You’re just not happy unless you’re being a prat, are you, Puff?” Merlin asks slipping his arm around Arthur’s back, seemingly ignorant of the scowl Morgana is sending him.  
 _…Arrogant, supercilious, conceited prat_ someone told him once.

Arthur just smiles.

Because yeah, pretty much.

But they also said he was a little bit _magic_.

 

*

  
 

**To feel the love of people whom we love,  
is a fire that feeds our life _  
Pablo Neruda_**

__

_*_

_**_Finis_ ** _

_**** _

_****_*_   
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've reached the end of this story, then congratulations. :) And thank you. This story has been a labour of love for a long time and I'm super excited that it's now finished and up for people to enjoy. And I really hope that you do.   
> It's been a while since I've had to upload anything of this size, (hah, this is a long one, even for me!) and I'd long forgotten that uploading is the hardest part. If you've found any faulty HTML throughout this, please let me know so I can fix it.   
> Anyway, thanks again for reading my fic. I really hope you like it.
> 
> Until next time! 
> 
> CJ  
> Over and out!


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